View allAll Photos Tagged provocation
Four-month-old siblings anxiously hide in plain sight behind a tree while mom chases off a rival female that has wondered nearby. They have not tried to climb the tree, yet, but they have checked it out and glance upward every few seconds. At their mother’s earliest provocation, they will clamor quickly up the tree and to relative safety. They don’t take their eye off her, watching her every move and waiting for her to return to their side. She is their lifeline and the only thing, living or otherwise, that they trust. #BlackBears
Possibly near Iron Baron, mine,
In 1998, I undertook a long and personal journey, from Melbourne to Whyalla. I flew to Adelaide and onto Whyalla, hired a hire car and spent about a week driving around. I made my home for the week in the caravan park at Whyalla. I spent most of each day driving and photographing. I blogged about it on my blog in 2023
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One of many ongoing approaches, where I move through the world as a harvester of images stumbling, strolling, lurching, equal parts accidental, and intentional. My concerns circumnavigate around questions that resist easy answers: time as texture, presence as performance, possibility as glitch. I trace the contours of decay and growth, hope and entropy, searching for the quiet collisions where meaning might emerge. Each image is less a document than a provocation an invitation to reconsider what we 'see', and what we ignore.
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Blog | Tumblr | Website | pixelfed.au | Instagram | Photography links | my Ko-fi shop | Off Ya Trolley! | s2z digital garden | vero | Dpreview albums | my work archived on trove at the National Library of Australia. | reddit
A textured construction wall in the docklands, if you stare long enough, patterns and shapes emerge.
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One of many ongoing approaches, where I move through the world as a harvester of images stumbling, strolling, lurching, equal parts accidental, and intentional. My concerns circumnavigate around questions that resist easy answers: time as texture, presence as performance, possibility as glitch. I trace the contours of decay and growth, hope and entropy, searching for the quiet collisions where meaning might emerge. Each image is less a document than a provocation an invitation to reconsider what we 'see', and what we ignore.
_____________________________________
Blog | Tumblr | Website | pixelfed.au | Instagram | Photography links | my Ko-fi shop | Off Ya Trolley! | s2z digital garden | vero | Dpreview albums | my work archived on trove at the National Library of Australia. | reddit
A bit of fun ......
Concentration and a sense of humour required.. ;o))
Enjoy ;o))
La provocation de l'art #10
See the full album "Les provocations de l'art" here:
The European robin (Erithacus rubecula), known simply as the robin or robin redbreast in the British Isles, is a small insectivorous passerine bird, specifically a chat, that was formerly classified as a member of the thrush family (Turdidae) but is now considered to be an Old World flycatcher. About 12.5–14.0 cm (5.0–5.5 inches) in length, the male and female are similar in coloration, with an orange breast and face lined with grey, brown upper parts and a whitish belly. It is found across Europe, east to Western Siberia and south to North Africa; it is sedentary in most of its range except the far north.
The robin is diurnal, although has been reported to be active hunting insects on moonlit nights or near artificial light at night. Well known to British and Irish gardeners, it is relatively unafraid of people and drawn to human activities involving the digging of soil, in order to look out for earthworms and other food freshly turned up. Indeed, the robin is considered to be a gardener's friend and for various folklore reasons the robin would never be harmed. In continental Europe on the other hand, robins were hunted and killed as with most other small birds, and are more wary. Robins also approach large wild animals, such as wild boar and other animals which disturb the ground, to look for any food that might be brought to the surface. In autumn and winter, robins will supplement their usual diet of terrestrial invertebrates, such as spiders, worms and insects, with berries and fruit. They will also eat seed mixtures placed on bird-tables.
Male robins are noted for their highly aggressive territorial behavior. They will fiercely attack other males and competitors that stray into their territories and have been observed attacking other small birds without apparent provocation. Such attacks sometimes lead to fatalities, accounting for up to 10% of adult robin deaths in some areas.
Because of high mortality in the first year of life, a robin has an average life expectancy of 1.1 years; however, once past its first year it can expect to live longer and one robin has been recorded as reaching 19 years of age. A spell of very low temperatures in winter may also result in significant mortality.
For more information, please visit en.wikipedia.org/wiki/European_robin
Nature and Wildlife photography
No Vacancy... really?
This is not meant as a provocation first hand, more of an observation.
Europe is struggling to accept more refugees every day and is partially doing a good job at it.
But from the refugees standpoint, it's hard to understand a closed door when what they are running from is so much worse than the problems that arise for us by helping them.
We live in Sweden btw. And thanks for liking the MOC. :)
Previously in Chapter 6 The Two Societies
This piece gave me the title to this chapter and was what I listened to much of the time when writing. It perfectly sets the tone for these scenes and the events that take place in our story.
⚜️The voyage had been long, just as Tabitha Kinkade had predicted. And while not terribly eventful overall, there was one mystery that troubled them throughout their journey. Quite often they were watched by an ominous, dark figure. A man in a dark, hooded cloak. He always kept his distance, holding to the shadows. And while he never approached, he loomed over them the entire trip. At one point, Prince Jelani grew tired of the enigma and decided to confront the man. However, Tabitha advised caution, as situations such as these would usually reveal themselves in time. Tabitha had learned long ago in her training, that without provocation most things or people that lingered around her, would eventually proclaim their identity. And if provoked they might flee or be lost, which could result in a costly delay. Besides, he'd done nothing thus far that would warrant a confrontation. And so, they would allow circumstances to run their course.
⚜️Once safely landed at the port in Calcutta both Tabitha and Lexington needed a warm bath and some much-needed rest away from the constant bumping ride of the ship's cabins. One of their porters was from Algeria and spoke Tamazight, a native tongue of the Berber people. It was obvious that Lexington was delighted to talk to someone from his native lands, which made Tabitha smile watching her friend speak in a language she had not heard for so long.
⚜️When the two travelers finally arrived at their hotel, both Tabitha's and Lexington's multilingual skills came into play when dealing with her pets and the porter's fears. Tabitha had taken just two of her wolves on the journey, Rolf and Kiva, as they were natural mates. Neither offered any hostility toward the porters or anyone else for that matter without Tabitha's command. However, aside from their daily walks on board the ship, they'd spent a great deal of time in their cages and were quite restless. Fortunately, with some gentle persuading, they were able to calm the porters and settle into their rooms.
⚜️The next morning was Easter. It was Sunday and their contact from the Cathedral of the Most Holy Rosary had sent a carriage to pick them up for services.
"We're to attend the Christian services, my lady?" Lexington inquired as he held his hand to help her into the carriage.
Tabitha grinned politely before answering him with a lofty and nonchalant demeanor, as was her custom when jesting with her friend,
"But of course, Dear Lexington. It's Easter! You didn't believe we were going to escape services today of all days, did you?"
At which point, she patted the seat next to her in the carriage.
"Now, come along."
Lexington's grumbling, as the rickety carriage made its way along the bustling streets of Calcutta, nearly made her laugh aloud as they rode toward the church. Not having the heart to tease him farther, she looked over at the handsome Berber while placing her gloved hands around his arm.
"Dear Lex, I've gone too far this time."
At which time she did laugh.
"The look on your face.... oh, dear Lexington, I adore you so!"
Lexington began to smile a little himself watching Tabitha giggle then asked. "What has brought this on my lady?"
Tabitha finally composed herself and assured him that she didn't expect him to attend the Easter services at the church as it was not his faith. While Catholic herself, she nor her parents had ever forced Lexington into their religious beliefs. They believed the workings of the soul were God's work.
Lexington breathed a sigh of relief at the news but in the end decided to attend anyway, out of respect for Tabitha and for their host.
⚜️Father Thomas Haskell was a lean man in his sixties. His bald head looked slick and shiny in the bright sun and his white hair gleamed. When he shook Tabitha's hand, she felt how rough and callused they were, and his skin was leathery tan. It was obvious Father Haskell spent much of his time in the gardens around the church. He wore the traditional robes of a parish priest and as with most Catholic holy men of that day, he appeared humble and somewhat trite. After introductions were made, he did not hesitate to reveal to the duo that he not only believed in the evil beings that scoured the earth but were unfeigned in his support of the Shadowhunters.
"You and your kind my dear are destined to rid the world of these heinous creatures. I am at your disposal of course."
As the bells of the church rang and the church doors began to open the priest looked at the church and then smiled when he turned back toward his guest.
"It is a delight to have you both visit us this morning and if you'll forgive me Lady Kindake I must attend to my flock. Services are about to begin, and I am expected inside. I've reserved seats for you both, won't you follow me."
Tabitha nodded and smiled as did Lexington
"Of course, Father Haskell," she responded.
And with that, they both followed the priest toward the grand doors that opened to the church's foyer.
As they approached, both Tabitha and Lexington noticed a striking man standing near a fountain. His hair was dark as a raven's wing and his equally dark beard was neatly trimmed. He wore a very smart-looking cutaway coat and silk vest that gave away his social status and as the man began to walk in their direction Tabitha could see that he was of average height and appeared to be in his peak years. She also noted how mysterious and mesmerizing his eyes were, and it was at that moment a commotion could be heard at the entrance to the church which caught all their attention.
Father Haskell began to walk faster and broke into a run with Tabitha and Lexington close behind him. When they reached the onlookers, the priest was determined, but not overly aggressive as he made his way through the congregation that had gathered there. Once through the crowd, Tabitha was surprised to see that the mysterious man she'd noticed outside was already just inside the large doorway. Lexington reached to touch her arm quietly, his way of letting her know he'd noticed as well. Turning quickly to rejoin the priest, they were greeted with the most morbid sight. At the top of the staircase, hanging from her neck, and high into the massive, vaulted ceiling was a young woman. Her face, though discolored and contorted was still beautiful as her lifeless body swung several feet above the top of the staircase.
Wanting desperately to help, Lexington started to climb the staircase but quickly came back to his senses realizing the poor woman's body was well out of reach. Looking over at Father Haskell, Tabitha watched as he moved his hand over his chest making the sign of the cross. His eyes were filled with dread and tears as he gazed up at the woman's corpse. She thought he might be in shock as she walked over to him.
"Father! Father Haskell!"
Shaking his head, he looked at Tabitha and then back at the woman's corpse.
"Dear God, whatever shall we do?!"
Tabitha motioned for Lex to join her and as he approached, she responded.
"This is your church Father and your congregation. They're depending on you. I'd suggest you postpone services this morning or at least move them to another location as quickly as possible."
Father Haskell nodded, still bewildered when he gazed back up at the woman's body hanging there, but when he looked back at them both again, he appeared to be himself.
"Quite right Lady Kinkade. We can set up chairs and move services to the garden."
Lexington looked back up at the girl's body and then back to Tabitha.
"My lady, the local authorities will be here soon. I'd suggest, well, if Father Haskell would allow us to represent the church in this matter, we could begin an investigation."
Tabitha looked at the girl again then back at Father Haskell.
"Father, do you know this woman?"
He nodded as he answered.
"Yes, she came to me about a week ago, she told me she was having nightmares, very vivid nightmares that were very real to her."
Tabitha and Lex looked at each other then back at the priest.
"She said she'd been sleepwalking as well. I.. well, I just can't think. I must get this situation under control!"
Tabitha nodded, reaching to hold the priest’s hands. "That's quite alright Father. From what you've told us this young woman may hold clues to the mystery that's brought us to Calcutta and you. Will you allow us to represent the church and aid you?"
Father Haskell nodded as he knew the Kinkade name very well and Tabitha's father had been a friend. He also trusted Cardinal Antonio implicitly.
"Yes, yes of course. Cardinal Antonio has sent you to us after all. And as I said before, if there's anything you need, anything at all. Please let me know. For now, however, I have much to do and must leave you."
⚜️Her name was Malini Gadhavi. She had been a mother and wife and her father and mother owned a bakery in town. She helped her parents with the business as did her children. Her husband, Harshad worked on the docks. They had all been notified of her death. Malini's body was taken to a crypt beneath the church where so many people in the community had been taken for decades. Out of respect, Tabitha and Lex had not examined the body yet. When the family arrived, they both bowed their heads, watching as they were escorted to the undercroft. Neither Tabitha nor Lexington were looking forward to questioning them.
⚜️The afternoon wore on and with their interrogations near completion, they'd learned very little. That was until the woman's mother told them about one of Malini's dreams. Sitting with them in Father Haskell's office the poor woman stared blankly at a candle's flame as Tabitha held her trembling hands, listening. She said that on one occasion her daughter had been able to remember one of her dreams completely. Melini had said it was so clear in her mind, and unlike most dreams, it felt as though it had happened. In this nightmare, she had emerged from a cave not far from her home. She also told her mother there was a man there with her in a cloak and a hood over his head. This dark, ominous being followed her to the mouth of the cave. Malini said the man never came close but watched her from the shadows. Her daughter told her that in the dream she roared like an animal and when she peered into the trees, she could feel the forest come alive with the heartbeats and movements of every living creature. And then she told her mother that even at that distance she could not only hear but smell the people in town. It was then her mother began to cry. Tabitha comforted her, giving a nod to Lexington and Father Haskell. The interrogations were now over.
⚜️It had been a long day. Nighttime was upon them, and they all needed rest. Standing there in the small tomb, the air was cool, and the smell of old dirt filled their nostrils as they began to examine Malini Gadhavi's body. Her fingernails and toenails showed no signs of dirt, blood, or flesh. Her body, as well as her hair, was clean as though it had just been washed. There were also no injuries, not even a scar, and when they turned her on her side to look at her back there was no tattoo, no brand of any kind. Holding a candle over the young woman's corpse, Lexington glanced over at Tabitha.
"This is peculiar my lady. She should have some sort of brand on her even if she wasn't a member with the pack we seek."
Tabitha nodded but didn't look up as she continued to scan the woman's body for any evidence and clues.
"Agreed Lex, this is odd. Melini's dream was not an uncommon one for a werewolf, other than the presence of the dark man of course. And yet, I do not see a brand anywhere on her. Or any physical evidence she was Lycan for that matter. We must be missing something."
Lexington pulled his candle away to poor some of the melted wax onto the dirt floor and as he did, Father Haskell brought his lantern closer to help Tabitha see. Then just as Lex brought the candle back Tabitha gasped and cried out.
"Wait! I saw something. When you brought your candle back Lex. It was yellow like, like... It was something on her skin!"
Lexington and the priest looked at each other then back at Tabitha as she continued.
"The lights... somehow. Father, bring your lantern back to where you had it, and Lex you take the candle away, and then bring it back just as you did before."
Both did as instructed but Tabitha only sighed with disappointment asking them both to try again. Shaking her head, she was both exhausted and frustrated when she pounded her fist on the stone slab. After which time she folded her arms to lay her head down for a moment. Lexington watched her and then offered some sound advice.
"My lady let us retire for the evening and come back in the morning with rested eyes."
Tabitha looked up at him but didn't raise when she answered.
"No Lex, not yet. I know I saw something. We must find it!
With her head still laying on her arms, she looked at them both.
"Now let's do this again. And Lexington when you bring the candle back, do it very slowly please."
Lexington nodded unenthusiastically, then began to move the candle away from the woman's body when Tabitha screamed out.
"Stop! Don't move! Do you see it?! It's there on her shoulder. You must not move, either of you. It's the lights!"
Both men looked at each other, each wondering if the trials of this day had finally gotten the best of the hunter, then listened as she explained.
"It's the lights! Look see, the glass of Father Haskell's lamp is red, and so the flame gives off a deep red hue, while the candle's light of course is much brighter. Obvious of course but, if you carefully peer into the candle's blue flame and with the help of the red glow from Father Haskell's lantern you can see it!"
Taking a candle in hand she invited Lexington to take her place.
"Now as I hold the candle look through the blue of its flame Lex. Can you see it?"
Lex nodded and gasped, then excitedly scrambled for his journal. As he did, Tabitha looked at the priest's bewildered face and offered further explanation.
"My guess is it's phosphorous under the skin Father. The lights set off some sort of chemical reaction allowing it to be seen. Once Lex has studied the tattoo and made a drawing, we'll hold the lantern and candle so you can observe for yourself."
Having to peer through the flame made the study of the tattoo quite difficult, however, Lexington was able to examine it thoroughly.
"How very interesting Ms. Tabitha. The ink leaves no protrusions on the skin, and it's entirely undetectable under normal light conditions."
Tabitha smiled as she listened and nodded.
"Is it our pack Lex?"
"Yes, my lady. She was a member of the pack we're tracking.
Tabitha nodded once more and raised an eyebrow as she spoke.
"I think it's obvious that Malini Gadhavi was not a willing participant. The poor woman. Such torment."
Gathering herself she redirected her attention toward Father Haskell.
"Father, do you know of any caves in the area?"
The priest nodded as he spoke, the radiant red hue of his lantern causing his face to look very macabre under the low ceiling of the underground chamber.
"Why yes of course. There are several smaller caves, but Mawsmai Cave is the largest in the area. It's not far but it will easily be a day’s journey there and back."
Tabitha and Lexington listened intently,
"Could you show us on a map Father?"
"Of course. If you'll follow me to my office, I can set you on the right path."
Gathering their things, they followed Father Haskell from the dank black corridor where Malini Gadhavi's broken body lay. As they wearily made their way up the stone stairwell Tabitha muttered to herself.
"We will avenge you and your children Melini. Whoever did this to you will pay. I promise you."
A soft beam of light showed across the young woman’s corpse from the top of the stairs. From deep in the vault their faint voices could be heard and then the door closed, and all was dark, and all as silent, forever.
🐺🐺🐺🐺
⭐This capture and this chapter of this story could not have been possible without the help of some truly wonderful people who I'm honored to know as friends
.
⭐First of all I'd like to thank my dear friend and mentor Morgan Talbot who not only opened up his beautiful sim to me to I could take this shot but provided the build itself and many of the characters. He also took the time to model for this shot. Morgan's advice and support are always so very special to me. But perhaps calling him my friend is the most remarkable treasure of all. Thank you babes.💓
⭐Next, I would like to thank my dear friend Harper Blackwood for her help and for enduring my rough drafts for this chapter. Thanks for being the lab rat this time babes. Not a rat but like...in a lab. She gets it. lol But mostely I'd like to thank Harper for her support, her encouragement, and her precious friendship. You're the best girl.💓
⭐Lastly and as the say, certainly not least, I want to thank my very dear friend and mentor Marcus Strong. His unwaivering support and encouragement is precious to me. He's has always there to help in any way he can, whether thats advice, modeling, or just to tell me I'm doing a good job. I can never repay this man for all he's done for me. I'm honored to call him my friend. Thank you babes.💓
Ballarat has a university campus. The University is called, Federation University.
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Use your arrow keys on your keyboard to navigate to the next picture.
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One of many ongoing approaches, where I move through the world as a harvester of images stumbling, strolling, lurching, equal parts accidental, and intentional. My concerns circumnavigate around questions that resist easy answers: time as texture, presence as performance, possibility as glitch. I trace the contours of decay and growth, hope and entropy, searching for the quiet collisions where meaning might emerge. Each image is less a document than a provocation an invitation to reconsider what we 'see', and what we ignore.
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Blog | Tumblr | Website | pixelfed.au | Instagram | Photography links | my Ko-fi shop | Off Ya Trolley! | s2z digital garden | vero | Dpreview albums | my work archived on trove at the National Library of Australia. | reddit
Doorway to an engineering workshop. This workshop still functions but has had a major face lift. Seen here
Use your arrow keys on your keyboard to navigate to the next picture.
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One of many ongoing approaches, where I move through the world as a harvester of images stumbling, strolling, lurching, equal parts accidental, and intentional. My concerns circumnavigate around questions that resist easy answers: time as texture, presence as performance, possibility as glitch. I trace the contours of decay and growth, hope and entropy, searching for the quiet collisions where meaning might emerge. Each image is less a document than a provocation an invitation to reconsider what we 'see', and what we ignore.
_____________________________________
Blog | Tumblr | Website | pixelfed.au | Instagram | Photography links | my Ko-fi shop | Off Ya Trolley! | s2z digital garden | vero | Dpreview albums | my work archived on trove at the National Library of Australia. | reddit
Photography for me is savoring of the moment, pondering the now, and willing provocations. As I frame my subject and tell my story, I turn the truth into an object at the mercy of my audience's interpretations including my own.
I told this story in several ways when editing and in the end decided on this version which was the farthest away from what I had captured originally. Hence, I do not represent the world through my pictures as I find it; I represent the world as I wish you contemplate it. In the process, often I become a contemplating audience for my own work.
Pals, I have a question:
I have an old photo (about three years old) that for a few months accumulates more and more activity (not like any other photo of mine).
I assume it is 'somewhere' but have no idea where is this 'somewhere'.
Do any of you have any ideas?
Thanks
www.flickr.com/photos/ybiberman/47744012342/
p.s.
I must admit it is not a typical photo of mine, and I posted it as a kind of a provocation (it is very colorful)
A Colombian cowboy on a horse (garrochero) stabs a bull in the neck while being chased in the arena of Corralejas, a rural bullfighting festival held in Soplaviento, Colombia. Every year during the dry season, villages and towns on the Caribbean coast of Colombia hold amateur bullfights, locally known as Corralejas. Families and people from all around meet on wooden bleachers of a temporarily built bullring to eat, drink and watch hundreds of amateur bullfighters risking their lives, taunting bulls, and showing their masculinity and courage in the arena. Unlike the corrida, the bulls in Corralejas are never killed. © Jan Sochor Photography
Gliwice Radio Station
The world's tallest wooden construction and the pretext for Hitler's German invasion of Poland
Gliwice (Gleiwitz) in Upper Silesia, Poland 18.10.2019
www.poland.travel/en/monuments/gliwice-radio-station
Sender Gleiwitz
Die höchste Holzkonstruktion der Welt und der Vorwand für den Überfall Hitlerdeutschlands auf Polen
Gliwice (Gleiwitz) in Oberschlesien, Polen 18.10.2019
www.spiegel.de/geschichte/besuch-im-sender-gleiwitz-a-949...
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Credits:
::CandyDoll - Lynn pack: socks RARE + _CD_ Lynn Black Bodysuit -+ bk apron M LARA
=Zenith=Devious Maids Hat (Black)
::[Provocation] Maid lacey accesory pack
::[Provocation] Maid panicle
Cavendish Mews is a smart set of flats in Mayfair where flapper and modern woman, the Honourable Lettice Chetwynd has set up home after coming of age and gaining her allowance. To supplement her already generous allowance, and to break away from dependence upon her family, Lettice has established herself as a society interior designer, so her flat is decorated with a mixture of elegant antique Georgian pieces and modern Art Deco furnishings, using it as a showroom for what she can offer to her well heeled clients.
Today however, we are following Edith, Lettice’s maid, along with her best friend and fellow maid-of-all-work, Hilda Clerkenwell, who works around the corner from Cavendish Mews in Hill Street as a live-in maid for Lettice’s married friends Margot and Dickie Channon. It is Wednesday, and both maids have Wednesdays as a half-day off work and are free until four o’clock. The pair of maids head east of Mayfair, to a place far removed from the elegance and gentility of Lettice’s flat, in London’s East End. Thanks to Lettice’s Cockney charwoman*, Mrs. Boothby, who lives in nearby Poplar, Edith now has her own hand treadle Singer** sewing machine, and frequents a wonderful haberdasher in Whitechapel, Mrs. Minkin, whom she goes to on her days off when she needs something for one of her many sewing projects as she slowly adds to and updates her wardrobe. Before the General Strike*** paralysed London a few weeks ago, Edith had attended a jumble sale**** held at her family’s parish church of All Souls***** in Harlesden to raise funds for the underpaid Welsh coal miners****** whose plight is what started the general movement of workers to strike. She acquired a number of things at the sale, including some pretty floral fabric and lace trims, which she is using to make Hilda, who is far less fashion conscious than Edith is, a new summer frock.
Both girls like Mrs. Minkin’s haberdashery. The heavy wood shelves and bolts of various fabrics stacked up around the walls muffle the sounds of the noisy street outside and envelop them in a cosy material cocoon. The shop is like a hoarder’s stash, filled with the most amazing collection of treasures to please even the fussiest of seamstresses or milliners: exotic and brightly coloured silks from the orient*******, intricate thick satin brocades from France******** glittering Bohemian glass buttons and beads*********, satin, velvet and grosgrain ribbons********** in every shade and tumbling cascades of frothy white and ecru lace from Nottingham and Derbyshire***********. The shop not only feels comforting, it smells comforting too, with a mixture of natural fabric, Lux Flakes************ – a scent Edith knows only too well because of her mother taking in other people’s laundry over the years – lavender and cloves************. We find Edith and Hilda in one of the many nooks in Mrs. Minkin’s shop, in front of the drawers that contain spools of brightly coloured silk threads.
“How is your latest sewing project coming along, Edit.” eagle eyed Mrs. Minkin calls from behind the shop counter where she has just finished serving another customer, her pudgy finger decorated with a few sparkling gold bejewelled rings moving with dexterity as she tidies her glass top and fronted counter. “Are you looking for a particular shade, my dear?”
A refugee from Odessa as a result of a pogrom************* in 1905, Mrs. Minkin’s Russian accent, still thick after nearly twenty years of living in London’s East End, muffles the h at the end of Edith’s name, never ceasing to make the young girl smile, for it is an endearing quality.
“Thank you, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith calls cheerfully in reply. “I’m looking for Sylko’s************** Sèvres Blue*************** if you have it, Mrs. Minkin.”
“I don’t know if I have any Sèvres Blue at the moment, Edit my dear,” Mrs. Minkin replies as she scratches her scalp beneath her old fashioned upswept hairdo with the end of a pencil as she thinks. “It’s not a colour that is hugely in demand.” She steps away from her space behind the counter and bustles across the room, her frilly and high Edwardian lace jabot running down the front of her blouse, held in place at her throat by a beautiful cameo – a gift from her beloved and at the same time irritating Mr. Minkin – flapping in the breeze as she moves around displays of haberdashery and notions**************** towards the two maids. “I am sure I will have somethink lovely in these drawers, dear Edit, which will be equally suitable if I don’t. Now let’s see.”
“Thank you Mrs. Minkin.” Edith replies gratefully as the woman begins to fossick through a set of wooden drawers of cotton spools emblazoned with a cotton manufacturers on each individual drawer.
“Oy vey iz mir*****************!” Mrs. Minkin exclaims with exasperation. “What is wrong with you Anglit******************?”
“What’s the matter, Mrs, Minkin?” Hilda asks as she sees the proprietoress withdraw a black spool from the drawer she is rifling through.
“Is England not a country of well-educated people, Hilde?” Mrs, Minkin asks with a pained look as she holds up the thread spool that is causing her offence.
“Well of course we are, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith replies quickly.
“I think that was a rhetorical question, Edith.” Hilda whispers under her breath to her best friend.
“What’s that when it’s at home, then?” Edith whispers back.
“A question that doesn’t need an answer, Edith.”
Seemingly not to have heard the two maids’ conspiratorial hushed conversation, Mrs. Minkin goes on, “Can no-one read? “Narishe froy!*****************! Can they not read? Black belongs in here!” She irritably yanks open a drawer marked ‘black’ in bold ink stencilled letters and slips the spool in with other black reels of cotton. “There are bound to be colours in there too, no doubt.” she sighs heavily. “I’ll get to it soon enough.” She returns to the colours drawer and keeps looking. “meanwhile you didn’t answer my question, Edit my dear.”
“And what question was that, Mrs. Minkin?” Edith asks politely, seeking clarification.
“What project are you working on now? It must be very special if you particularly want Bleu de Sèvres.”
“Oh, sorry Mrs. Mikin,” Edith apologises earnestly, raising her right hand to her chest. “I must have been concentrating so hard on finding Sèvres Blue cotton that I mustn’t have heard you.”
“Is it special? A new frock perhaps, , Edit my dear?” the older woman asks tentatively as she pries. “I’m sure I have some lovely Gablonz glass buttons that would go with something in the vein of Bleu de Sèvres.” she says as she tries to tempt Edith.
Edith likes the Jewess proprietoress. She always has a smile and a kind word for Edith and Hilda, and her generosity towards her has found Edith discover extra spools of coloured cottons or curls of pretty ribbons and other notions in the lining of her parcel when she unpacks it at Cavendish Mews. Mrs. Minkin always insists when Edith mentions it, that she wished all her life that she had had a daughter, but all she ever had were sons, so Edith is like a surrogate daughter to her, and as a result she gets to reap the small benefits of her largess.
“It is rather special, yes.” Edith replies, casting a glance at Hilda and smiling. “It’s a new frock for Hilda.”
“Hilde!” Mrs. Minkin stops fossicking and glances at the two maids. “You are making a frock for Hilde, Edit?”
“Yes Mrs. Minkin.” Hilda replies. Noting the older woman’s startled look which matches the tone in her voice, Hilda goes on, “Is that such a surprise?”
“Oh well!” Mrs. Minkin reaches up and clasps her cameo at her throat and coughs awkwardly. “No, of course not Hilde. I mean, it is a surprise, but a nice one. How lucky you are to have such a good chaverah tovah******************** in Edit, my dear Hilde, to make you a frock.”
“Well, she needs it, Mrs. Mikin.” Edith pipes up joyfully.
“A meydele, can never have too many frocks, Edit my dear.” Mrs. Minkin replies sagely. “Which is why I’m in business.” She smiles broadly as she opens her arms expansively and gesticulates proudly to all the beautiful things in their immediate surrounds.
“Well Hilda definitely needs a new frock, since she’s started stepping out with a nice young man, finally.” Edith giggles girlishly.
“Oh Edith, don’t!” Hilda defends, swatting at her best friend as her cheeks flush with embarrassed colour.
“What’s this?” Mrs. Minkin exclaims with excitement. “Hilde? Is this true?”
Hilda’s blush deepens as she replies. “It’s early days yet, Mrs. Minkin.”
“But it’s promising, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith interjects excitedly. “He boards with my Frank, you see, and he’s ever such a nice chap.”
“Mazel Tov*********************, Hilde!” the old Jewess grasps, clapping her bejewelled hands in delight. “This is wonderful news!” She reaches out her careworn digits and envelops Hilda’s fat, sausage like fingers and squeezes them, giving her a beaming smile of genuine happiness for her. “You and Edit are like my daughters, Hilde, since God only thought to bless Soloman and I with sons, so you must keep me informed.” She nods affirmatively, making the dainty gold droplet earrings hanging from her lobes dance about, glinting as they catch the light. “I take it he isn’t Jewish?”
“No!” Hilda laughs, surprised at Mrs. Minkin’s question. “He’s C of E**********************, like me, Mrs. Minkin.”
“Nu, shoyn***********************,” Mrs. Minkin replies with a shrug and a sigh. “It would be better if he was, Hilde my dear, but as you Anglit say, we cannot have all that we would want.”
“I think you mean, ‘you cannot have everything you want’, Mrs. Minkin.” Hilda corrects her older woman politely.
“That is what I say.” Mrs. Minkin replies with a determined nod.
In order to deflect the conversation away from her buddling relationship with Frank’s best man, John Simpkin, Hilda begins, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mrs. Minkin,”
“Hhhmmm?” Mrs. Minkin murmurs as she returns to sorting the spools of colourful threads in the drawers whilst helping Edith to find the shade of cotton she is seeking. “Ask me what, Hilde?”
“That sign advertising Weldon’s************************.” Hilda points to the poster of a Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal cover pinned to the papered wall.
“What about it, Hilde?” Mrs. Minkin asks without ceasing her task, her fingers moving deftly through the drawer’s contents.
“Well, it just seems like such an anomaly.” She pauses for a moment as she realises that her choice of words might be a little too academic for her best friend, who she doubts would have been exposed to the word, and the old Jewess, for whom English was not a first language. “An oddity. It doesn’t fit in.”
“What are you saying, Hilda?” Edith retorts. “Of course it does. I buy Weldon’s from here every month. I mean, it’s a bit out of date.” She glances at the edition, which states that it is from September 1910.
“That’s what I mean.” Hilda replies. “Mrs. Minkin, you always have the most up-to-date and fashionable fabrics and notions, yet this is over fifteen years old.”
“Ahh.” Mrs, Minkin notes with a wistful sigh as she pauses in her task, allowing her fingers to rest in the colours drawer atop the lines of round spools. “I see what you mean.”
“Surely you realised that it was pinned up there, Mrs. Minkin?” Edith queries. “You know all the stock in your shop.”
“Except maybe whether I have a spool of Sylko Bleu de Sèvres.” Mrs. Minkin chuckles before continuing, “Yes, I know it is there, Edit. And yes, I do know it is very far out-of-date.” She takes a deep breath. “But you see, September 1910 is a very important date for me.”
“What happened in September 1910?” Edith queries.
“That was the month and year I opened my haberdashery here in Whitechapel.” Mrs, Minkin replies, a wistfulness entering her voice as she speaks.
“But I thought you said that you left your home in Russia in 1905.” Edith remarked.
“We didn’t leave,” Mrs, Minkin replies with bitterness replacing the wistfulness. “We were driven from our homes by Bloody Nicholas************************* and his supporters**************************!”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith apologises.
The steeliness that has possessed the old Jewess’ face and hardened her gaze dissipates a little as she turns to Edith and smiles sadly. “It’s alright Edit my dear. You are not to blame for the persecutions my Soloman and our children suffered. We were good people. We were fabric merchants. We even employed Goyim*************************** to work for us. Other merchants refused to employ anyone who wasn’t Jewish, but we wanted to employ local people.”
“So, you came to England to start over again?” Hilda asks, tentatively.
“Oy vey, Hilde!” Mrs. Minkin raises her hands and casts her eyes to the ceiling above. “How could we? Mr. Minkin and I had to leave so much behind, not least of all our business, and all the fabrics Mr. Minkin had to leave in the warehouse. We had a few paltry bags of belongings between us, and that included food, for we were unsure what kind of reception or hospitality we would receive as we fled.”
“But you found safety, here in England, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith says, but even as she speaks the words, they almost come out like a question, rather than a statement.
“Oh yes, Edit,” the older woman pauses. “Eventually.”
“Eventually?” Edith ventures.
“England was not so willing to take poor and destitute émigrés such as Mr. Minkin and I. We had to prove that we would not be a burden by showing that we could support ourselves with money****************************, but we had none. We had to rebuild our business to support ourselves, and that took five years.”
“So, what did you do?” Hilda asked.
“We went to France*****************************. They didn’t care that we didn’t have a sou between us******************************!”
Edith gasps as she realises something. “That explains why you use French terms, Mrs. Minkin.”
“We arrived via a third class ticket aboard a locomotive that pulled into the Gare de l'Est along with many others after travelling through Germany*******************************. Mr. Minkin and I set up a small haberdashery export business in the Pletzl in the Le Marais neighbourhood******************************** and slowly built up our business. It was never ging to be what we had back home in Odessa, but it was enough to prove that we would be able to financially support ourselves.”
“I’m sorry it’s not like the kind of life that you led back in Russia, Mrs. Minkin.” Edith remarks kindly.
“Nu, shoyn, Edit my dear.” Mrs, Minkin says with a shrug. “We are here. We are alive, we are not persecuted and my sons and our business thrive. What more can I ask God for? Eh?”
“How about a reel of blue thread so that Edith can finish my frock, Mrs. Minkin?” Hilda says with a cheeky glint in her eye as she tries to brighten the atmosphere and conversation.
Mrs. Minkin delves her hand back into the colours drawer of the spool cabinet and continues her search.
“Ahh!” she says at length, before holding up a single spool of Sèvres Blue. “D110, Bleu de Sèvres!” She smiles proudly as she presents it to a grateful Edith. “Ask Him, and God shall provide.”
*A charwoman, chargirl, or char, jokingly charlady, is an old-fashioned occupational term, referring to a paid part-time worker who comes into a house or other building to clean it for a few hours of a day or week, as opposed to a maid, who usually lives as part of the household within the structure of domestic service. In the 1920s, chars usually did all the hard graft work that paid live-in domestics would no longer do as they looked for excuses to leave domestic service for better paying work in offices and factories.
**The Singer Corporation is an American manufacturer of consumer sewing machines, first established as I. M. Singer & Co. in 1851 by Isaac M. Singer with New York lawyer Edward C. Clark. Best known for its sewing machines, it was renamed Singer Manufacturing Company in 1865, then the Singer Company in 1963. In 1867, the Singer Company decided that the demand for their sewing machines in the United Kingdom was sufficiently high to open a local factory in Glasgow on John Street. The Vice President of Singer, George Ross McKenzie selected Glasgow because of its iron making industries, cheap labour, and shipping capabilities. Demand for sewing machines outstripped production at the new plant and by 1873, a new larger factory was completed on James Street, Bridgeton. By that point, Singer employed over two thousand people in Scotland, but they still could not produce enough machines. In 1882 the company purchased forty-six acres of farmland in Clydebank and built an even bigger factory. With nearly a million square feet of space and almost seven thousand employees, it was possible to produce on average 13,000 machines a week, making it the largest sewing machine factory in the world. The Clydebank factory was so productive that in 1905, the U.S. Singer Company set up and registered the Singer Manufacturing Company Ltd. in the United Kingdom.
***The General Strike in Britain occurred between May the 3rd and May the 12th, 1926. It was a nine-day nationwide stoppage called by the Trades Union Congress (TUC) to support coal miners facing wage reductions and worsening conditions. Roughly one million, seven hundred thousand workers went on strike, primarily in transport and heavy industry.
****A jumble sale is a British community event, often held in church or village halls, where donated second-hand goods are sold to raise funds for charity or local organisations. Common items sold include used clothes, books, toys, and bric-a-brac at very low prices.
*****The parish of All Souls, Harlesden, was formed in 1875 from Willesden, Acton, St John's, Kensal Green, and Hammersmith. Mission services had been held by the curate of St Mary's, Willesden, at Harlesden institute from 1858. The parish church at Station Road, Harlesden, was built and consecrated in 1879. The town centre church is a remarkable brick octagon designed by E.J. Tarver. Originally there was a nave which was extended in 1890 but demolished in 1970.
******Following a post-war slump, market downturns, and the government’s return to the Gold Standard, coal mine owners demanded substantial wage cuts in 1925, threatening to remove the national minimum wage. In some cases, proposed wages were lower than unemployment benefits. Owners sought to increase the working day as well, which would have meant more time in hazardous conditions for less pay for the miners. Mining was fraught with danger, with over one thousand two hundred miners killed annually across Britain and many more suffering life-altering injuries and industrial diseases. When mine owners, backed by the British government, threatened to terminate the 1924 wage agreement in July 1925 (known as Red Friday) a nine month government subsidy was paid to keep mines open. This was not a victory for the miners, but rather a temporary delay that allowed the government to stockpile coal and prepare for the inevitable showdown. The fear of the workhouse or absolute destitution was a constant pressure on mining families in the Valleys. Employers were already implementing harsh conditions, forcing miners into a position where they felt they had no choice but to fight for the right to work. These conditions, compounded by the eventual withdrawal of the subsidy and the subsequent lockout in May 1926, created a deeply entrenched, desperate situation for Welsh communities before the General Strike of 1926 occurred.
*******In the 1920s, Britain primarily sourced its raw silk and finished silk fabrics from China and Japan who were global producers of silk at the time. Britain sourced vast quantities of raw silk from East Asia to feed its own regional weaving centres in towns like Macclesfield, Congleton, and Braintree. High-end woven silk fabrics and chinoiserie-style textiles were also widely imported from China.
********Famous for its fashion and luxury textile industries, France (particularly Lyon) remained a primary source for highly sought-after, intricately woven satins, brocades, and finished fashion garments.
*********In the 1920s, Britain sourced the vast majority of its glass buttons and beads from Bohemia (specifically the industrial glassmaking region around Jablonec and Nisou). Following the Great War, this region became part of the newly formed republic of Czechoslovakia, and British traders and designers widely referred to the area and its imports by the German name, Gablonz. Following the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the German-Bohemian glassworks in Gablonz dominated the global costume jewellery, button, and bead markets. By the late 1920s, Czechoslovakia was the largest exporter of beads and jewellery in the world.
**********"Grosgrain" is commonly used to refer to a heavy, stiff ribbon of silk or (in the 1920s) manmade silk or rayon, woven via taffeta weave using a heavy weft, which results in distinct transverse ribs. Historically, grosgrain was made from wool, silk, or a combination of fibres such as silk and wool or silk and mohair. When a combination of fibres was used, the result was sometimes given the name grogram, silk mohair, gros de Tours or gros de Naples.
***********Throughout the 1920s, Britain sourced most of its commercial lace from the East Midlands, specifically Nottingham and Derbyshire, for local supply. Nottingham was undisputed global hub of the machine-made lace industry, famous for producing fine fabrics and lace curtains. Towns like Long Eaton and Ilkeston in Derbyshire, experienced major industrial expansion after the Great War, becoming vital mass-production centres for Leavers lace. Pockets of traditional handmade lace — such as Bedfordshire lace, Buckinghamshire (Bucks Point) lace, and Honiton lace from Devon — were still produced on a smaller scale by preservation groups and rural workers, though they had sharply declined.
***********Before the invention of modern liquid detergents, Lux Flakes revolutionised hand-washing. Because the flakes were pure and mild, the brand marketed heavily to women, positioning itself as a safe way to care for fine lace, knitwear, and hosiery. Lever Brothers first produced "Sunlight Flakes" out of their factories in Port Sunlight on the Wirral Peninsula in 1899. "Sunlight Flakes" were an innovative product made from thin sheets of Sunlight soap that could easily dissolve in water. By 1900, the product was officially renamed "Lux." The brand expanded into the US market by 1906. In 1925, the company launched Lux toilet soap, shifting the brand's focus heavily toward beauty. By leveraging celebrity endorsements from Hollywood icons, it quickly became famous as the soap of the stars. Lux Flakes solidified its position as the ultimate gentle cleanser for delicate fabrics, woolens, and lingerie in the post Second World War era, and is still available today, although it no longer trades as Lux Soap Flakes since the brand of Lux has shifted globally to beauty soaps. The laundry tradition of pure soap still survives under trade names like “Softly Pure Soap Flakes”.
************People placed lavender and cloves amongst their linens primarily to repel fabric-eating insects (like moths) and to naturally freshen stale-smelling fabrics. Historically, before the invention of synthetic chemicals, these botanicals were a safe, chemical-free way to keep stored bedding and clothing in pristine condition. Insects loathe the chemical compounds naturally present in these plants. Lavender contains oils that naturally repel clothes moths and silverfish, while cloves act as a powerful deterrent for a variety of household pests.
*************Pogroms in the Russian Empire were large-scale, targeted, and repeated anti-Jewish rioting that began in the Nineteenth Century. Pogroms began to occur after Imperial Russia, which previously had very few Jews, acquired territories with large Jewish populations from the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Ottoman Empire from 1772 to 1815. The 1905 pogrom against Jews in the Odessa region was the most serious pogrom of the period, with reports of up to 2,500 Jews killed. Jews fled Russia, some ending up in London’s East End, which had a reasonably large Jewish community, particularly associated with clothing manufacturing.
**************Sylko cotton threads were produced in a dizzying array of colours and shades by Dwehurt’s. Belle Vue Mill, commonly known as Dewhurst’s, was built by Thomas Dewhurst in 1828. It opened in 1829 as John Dewhurst & Sons and was one of Skipton’s largest spinning and weaving mills. The mill’s position next to the Leeds Liverpool Canal meant that raw cotton could be shipped in by boats from Liverpool. Finished goods would then be sent back the same way ready for distribution. Coal to power the machine’s steam engines was also delivered by barge. In 1897 Dewhurst’s was bought by the English Sewing Cotton Co. It continued to produce Sylko, one of the mill’s most famous products. It was produced in over 500 colours and sold throughout the world. Sylko cottons are still available at haberdashers today, albeit under a different branding.
***************Sèvres Blue (Bleu de Sèvres) is a signature deep, inky-cobalt colour developed by chemists at the renowned French porcelain manufactory in the 1750s. Associated with luxury, it became an international symbol of royal prestige, famously paired with 24-carat gold and used in diplomatic gifts for European monarchs. Dewhurst’s produced a Sèvres Blue shade of cotton before the Second World War. It was dye shade number D110.
****************In sewing and haberdashery, notions are small objects or accessories, including items that are sewn or otherwise attached to a finished article, such as buttons, snaps, and collar stays. Notions also include the small tools used in sewing, such as needles, thread, pins, marking pens, elastic, and seam rippers.
*****************“Oy vey iz mir” is the most famous Ashkenazi Jewish expression for a sigh of mild despair, exasperation, or "drat".
******************“Anglit” is Hebrew for English.
*******************“Narishe froy is Yiddish for “stupid woman.”
********************“Chaverah tovah” is Yiddish for a good female friend.
*********************“Meydele” is the he affectionate Yiddish diminutive for a "little girl" or "young girl".
*********************“Masel” Tov is the most common and widely understood way to say congratulations in Yiddish. It is usually used for birthdays, weddings, new jobs, and graduations, but can be used for any celebration.
**********************The abbreviation "C of E" began as a practical administrative and journalistic shorthand during the rapid industrial expansion of the Nineteenth Century. It became widely used in public records, timetables, and census documents by the mid-1800s to quickly reference the English state church.
***********************“Nu, shoyn” is the closest direct Yiddish equivalent to "oh well," "so be it," or "whatever happens, happens." It is used when shrugging off a minor inconvenience.
************************Created by British industrial chemist and journalist Walter Weldon Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was the first ‘home weeklies’ magazine which supplied dressmaking patterns. Weldon’s Ladies’ Journal was first published in 1875 and continued until 1954 when it ceased publication.
*************************Tsar Nicholas II earned the name "Bloody Nicholas" primarily due to his regime's violent suppression of peaceful protests during Bloody Sunday in 1905, and his government's bungled response to a deadly stampede at his coronation in 1896 which became known as the Khodynka Tragedy. Just days after Tsar Hicholas’ coronation, a massive public festival was held in Moscow where free food and souvenir mugs were being given out. Due to rumours that there wouldn't be enough gifts, a catastrophic stampede broke out. Nearly 1,400 of his subjects were crushed to death. Nicholas attended a ball that same evening, which the Russian public saw as deeply callous, staining his early reputation. On January 22, 1905, tens of thousands of unarmed, peaceful workers marched toward the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg to present a petition for better working conditions and political reform. Without provocation, the Imperial Guard opened fire on the crowd, killing and wounding hundreds. Although the Tsar was not physically in the palace, he was held ultimately responsible, turning public sentiment sharply against him.
**************************The Odessa Pogrom of 1905 erupted from a volatile mix of political revolution, economic tension, and government-backed antisemitism. When Tsar Nicholas II issued the October Manifesto promising civil liberties, pro-tsarist and conservative groups (the "Black Hundreds") were furious. They scapegoated the Jewish population, claiming Jews had forced the Tsar's hand, and violently attacked Jewish neighbourhoods in an effort to suppress the Russian Revolution of 1905. Jews were heavily represented in the opposition movement demanding an end to autocratic rule. Consequently, pro-government mobs targeted them as political enemies of the Russian state. Rapid modernisation and industrial downturns fostered intense job competition, particularly among unskilled, non-Jewish day labourers. This fuelled deep economic resentment, as many non-Jewish workers viewed Jewish merchants and professionals as the cause of their financial hardships. Local authorities, the police, and the military deliberately turned a blind eye or took belated action. By refusing to intervene, the Tsarist government tacitly allowed the ethnic violence to distract from broader social discontent and to crush revolutionary sentiment.
***************************In Hebrew and Yiddish, “goy” is a term for a gentile: a non-Jew. Through Yiddish, the word has been adopted into English also to mean "gentile", sometimes in a pejorative sense. Goyim is the plural variation of the word.
****************************Immigrants entering England in the early 1900s needed to arrive at an approved port, pass medical and financial inspections, and prove they were not criminals or likely to become a burden on the state. Under the Aliens Act 1905, those who failed these inspections were denied entry. Immigrants needed to prove they had the means to support themselves. Those deemed destitute or likely to become a charge on the state were refused entry.
*****************************In the early 1900s, unlike entering Britain, crossing into France was relatively informal, with minimal paperwork. Immigrants simply arrived and moved about freely. However, rising nationalism leading up to World War I, followed by massive post-war labour shortages, prompted the French government to enforce standardised passports and strict police registration requirements. However, in 1905 when the Minkin family escaped the Russian pogroms, there were no such regulations.
******************************A sou is an old French coin or a slang term for a very small, insignificant amount of money.
*******************************Fleeing the 1905 Russian pogroms, Jewish refugees traveled westward overland by rail and on foot, exiting the Russian Empire via border checkpoints in Brody (Galicia) or across the German frontier. From there, they traveled through Central Europe, primarily entering France by train through northeastern border crossings such as Belfort and Lunéville, arriving in Paris at the Gare de l'Est or Gare du Nord. Trains traveling from the Russian Empire and Central Europe (passing through major transit hubs like Berlin or Leipzig) into Paris typically terminated at these two northern stations.
********************************Arriving exhausted via the Gare du Nord and Gare de l’Est railway stations, Russian Jewish refugees fleeing the pogroms of 1905 clustered in specific areas of Paris due to the availability of cheap tenement housing and existing community networks. The Pletzl (in the Le Marais neighbourhood of the 4th arrondissement) centred around the Rue des Rosiers, Place Saint-Paul, and Rue Ferdinand Duval. This area became a bustling, Yiddish-speaking immigrant enclave reminiscent of the shtetls (Yiddish word that literally means "little town") they left behind in Russia. The neighbourhood was deeply impoverished, with families crowding into old, subdivided mansions, but it offered a robust support network of communal kitchens and small synagogues.
This corner of Mrs. Minkin’s cluttered haberdashers filled with an assortment of notionsand spools is not all it seems to be at first glance, for it is made up of pieces from my 1:12 size dollhouse miniatures collection.
Fun things to look for in this tableau include:
The two sets of spool drawers and hand made and stencilled by miniature artisan Carlotta Rossi, who runs her miniatures business Cinen out of Bologna in Italy. The miniature compartmentalised wooden display featuring cards of buttons, needle packets and mending threads on cards was also made by her. The quality of her pieces and the fine details they display make these real artisan pieces.
The wooden spools of cotton in their varying shades and sizes I acquired from Kathleen Knight’s Dolls’ House Shop in the United Kingdom and several online suppliers of miniatures via eBay.
Edith’s and Hilda’s handbags in the foreground are handmade from soft leather and are part of a larger collection of hats and bags that I bought from an American miniature collector Marilyn Bickel.
The poster featuring the very Edwardian cover of the September 1910 Weldon’s Ladies Home Journal was a gift to me from my friend Sharon in Dorset, with whom I have an affinity over beautiful haberdashery pieces.
The wallpaper is an authentic, rather garish, Edwardian pattern that was sourced and printed by me.
Golden Plover / pluvialis aoricararia. Titchwell, Norfolk. 23/10/21.
Huge numbers of Golden Plover at Titchwell resting on small muddy islands and taking flight readily at the slightest provocation! Occasionally, one would break free from the main group, like this one who shared time with a larger plover cousin!
BEST VIEWED LARGE.
NEW: I'm now making music, JOIN ME ON SOUNDCLOUD!
SHOP: www.icanvas.com/canvas-art-prints/artist/ben-heine
Work in progress HERE and close detail HERE.
This is a digital work but I placed the circles one by one on a black
background. It took me quite a long time to finish the whole portrait...
I really like Lady Gaga's personality and imago. She has a beautiful mouth and I found a deep expression of nostalgia and fear in the purity of her eyes.
The original version of the above portrait is huge (over 10000 pixels wide).
Buy prints, canvases and posters of this artwork HERE.
For more info about my projects, contact: info@benheine.com
The daylight version, at the western end, reveals more texture and history.
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One of many ongoing approaches, where I move through the world as a harvester of images stumbling, strolling, lurching, equal parts accidental, and intentional. My concerns circumnavigate around questions that resist easy answers: time as texture, presence as performance, possibility as glitch. I trace the contours of decay and growth, hope and entropy, searching for the quiet collisions where meaning might emerge. Each image is less a document than a provocation an invitation to reconsider what we 'see', and what we ignore; and why.
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The arts precinct in St.Kilda Road sees many interesting interventions and art. Or sometimes. Not. This was a comedy festival venue and I think the Speigeltent.
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______________________________________
One of many ongoing approaches, where I move through the world as a harvester of images stumbling, strolling, lurching, equal parts accidental, and intentional. My concerns circumnavigate around questions that resist easy answers: time as texture, presence as performance, possibility as glitch. I trace the contours of decay and growth, hope and entropy, searching for the quiet collisions where meaning might emerge. Each image is less a document than a provocation an invitation to reconsider what we 'see', and what we ignore; and why.
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Blog | Tumblr | Website | pixelfed.au | Instagram | Photography links | my Ko-fi shop | Off Ya Trolley! | s2z digital garden | vero | 180º @ 17:00 | Dpreview albums | reddit | red bubble | newgrain
Or, see bees on the sea holly.
In Elizabethan times in England, these plants were believed to be a strong aphrodisiac. They are named in a speech by Falstaff:
"Let the sky rain potatoes;
let it thunder to the tune of Green-sleeves,
hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes [sea-holly],
let there come a tempest of provocation..."
—Falstaff, Act 5, scene v, "The Merry Wives of Windsor", William Shakespeare
Thank you for your comments and faves – they are greatly appreciated!
Select photos from my Flickr stream are available for purchase as prints or personal download at [www.winterfirephotographicarts.com].
alternate title: I am not angry at your cichlids.
This painting has to do with strength, resolve and winning, but also with weakness, apathy and loss. It has to do with the vulnerability and courage to have a voice that is different from others. Both Sia and Camille Paglia are inspirations for this painting, but it also takes inspiration from a failed friendship of mine. I began to learn how people who feel weak can be threatened by those who appear strong. I think it's important to notice that all of us have the potential for being either strong or weak. And the choices we make, how we walk them out and how we communicate our boundaries and desires to others will play a huge role in our outcomes. I proudly admit that I used the title of one of Paglia's recent books as the name for this painting.
The Story of Ferdinand (1936) is the best known work written by American author Munro Leaf and illustrated by Robert Lawson. The children's book tells the story of a bull who would rather smell flowers than fight in bullfights. He sits in the middle of the bull ring failing to take heed of any of the provocations of the matador and others to fight. Here, Ferdinand the bull sits atop a shed watching over the Napa Valley smelling the sweet aroma of the grapes
A book is the only place in which you can examine a fragile thought without breaking it, or explore an explosive idea without fear it will go off in your face. It is one of the few havens remaining where a man's mind can get both provocation and privacy.
~Edward P. Morgan
For the Happy Caturday group theme "Poem or book".
When we adopted Jeffrey, he already had his name.
A British friend told us about this famous poem by Christopher Smart (1722-71):
"For I will consider my Cat Jeffrey.
For he is the servant of the Living God, duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For is this done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having considered God and himself he will consider his neighbor.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness
he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction if he is well-fed, neither will he spit
without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him, and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of
the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defense is an instance of the love of God
to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord's poor, and so indeed is he called by benevolence
perpetually —Poor Jeffrey! poor Jeffrey! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeffrey is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can sit up with gravity, which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick, which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master's bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Icneumon rat, very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God's light about him both wax and fire.
For the electrical fire is the spiritual substance which God sends from heaven
to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, though he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.
Today in Kyiv, electricity is supplied for 3–3.5 hours, then cut off for 6.5–7 hours. In general, life is still manageable. In the southern city on the Black Sea, Odesa, and in Odesa Oblast, the situation with electricity is much worse. Tens of thousands of homes have been without power for more than a week. In the capital, life still flickers on, albeit intermittently. And I continue my story…
In order to prevent the authorities from using the police and internal troops to occupy the Maidan between rallies, the protesters decided to set up a tent camp there and on the adjacent Khreshchatyk Street. During such protests, it is very important to hold your territory, because if it is lost, it becomes much easier for the authorities to suppress a fragmented protest.
People who had come from other regions of Ukraine lived in the tent camp: activists from political movements, romantics, young men and women for whom it was exciting to run away from home and feel the taste of a free life, adventurers, and sometimes marginal elements. In general, the mix of people in the camp was very diverse. There, residents of Kyiv could meet and talk with people from other parts of the country and make new acquaintances.
Unlike the later events of 2013, the authorities at that time were afraid to disperse the protests by force and to storm the tent camp. President Kuchma had been warned by the leaders of Western countries that in the event of a violent crackdown he would become a persona non grata, and the only place where he would be able to spend his retirement would be a dacha near Moscow.
Kuchma already had a bad reputation due to the murder of an opposition journalist and the scandal involving the illegal sale of high-tech 'Kolchuga' air defense systems to Saddam Hussein’s regime in Iraq. He did not want to turn into an untouchable, bloodstained, sanctions-hit dictator, but dreamed instead of a calm, luxurious life as a wealthy retiree on his European villas.
Thus, although armored vehicles and units of the internal troops were brought to Kyiv, there was no assault on the Maidan in 2004.
The most critical period in the tent camp came at night, when most city residents went home. At night, there could have been some kind of provocations. Also, that winter was quite cold. Although tents were heated with potbelly stoves - I can imagine how uncomfortable it must have been to stay there for several weeks until the re-vote took place.
(To be continued...)
Despite the lockdowns I did manage at least one road trip.
This site outside Maldon of course piqued my interest for its rusting machinery, abandoned and being slowly engulfed by the surrounding bushland. It is also a reserve, with some basic amenities.
Alluvial gold was discovered in the Maldon district by Captain John Mechosk, a German prospector, in 1853, resulting in a rush of some 20,000 diggers to the alluvial gullies around Maldon. By the following year, only 2000 remained. After the initial rush, companies were set up to mine the rich, but sometimes elusive, quartz reefs. Some alluvial mining was carried out using puddling machines powered by horse or steam. In the 1860s the amount of quartz reef gold produced at Maldon almost rivalled Bendigo (Victoria’s richest quartz mining field). This prosperity was short lived (from 1870-1900), and the last deep mines closed in 1926. As gold production declined, the town’s population dwindled. For most of the last century, Maldon experienced very little growth.
The miners left behind one of the best collections of accessible quartz reef mining relics in Victoria. Many of the mine sites, historic buildings and heritage features have been preserved. source
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One of many ongoing approaches, where I move through the world as a harvester of images stumbling, strolling, lurching, equal parts accidental, and intentional. My concerns circumnavigate around questions that resist easy answers: time as texture, presence as performance, possibility as glitch. I trace the contours of decay and growth, hope and entropy, searching for the quiet collisions where meaning might emerge. Each image is less a document than a provocation an invitation to reconsider what we 'see', and what we ignore.
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Blog | Tumblr | Website | pixelfed.au | Instagram | Photography links | my Ko-fi shop | Off Ya Trolley! | s2z digital garden | vero | Dpreview albums | my work archived on trove at the National Library of Australia. | reddit
« Accoutumance et fatigue font équilibre à cette provocation diffuse ; ainsi l’ensemble garde sa stabilité, sa réserve. » (H.T.)
new website : this, random, RSS | random Flickr | © David Farreny.
© Ben Heine || Facebook || Twitter || www.benheine.com
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Buy prints, canvases and posters of this artwork HERE.
Work in progress HERE and close detail HERE.
This is a digital work but I placed the circles one by one on a black
background. It took me quite a long time to finish the whole portrait...
I really like Lady Gaga's personality and imago. She has a beautiful
mouth and I found a deep expression of nostalgia and fear in the
purity of her eyes.
The original version of the final portrait is huge (over 10000 pixels wide).
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For more information about my art: info@benheine.com
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The peacock butterfly occurs in temperate regions of Europe and Asia, with a range that extends from Britain and Ireland eastwards through Russia to eastern Siberia, the Korean peninsula and Japan. It is absent from northern Scandinavia and southern parts of Spain and Portugal. It also occurs in temperate regions of Turkey and northern Iran, and has been recorded at elevations of up to 2,500 metres. It is sometimes known as the European peacock, to distinguish it from another butterfly, from a completely different family, that occurs in North America.
Eryngium maritimum, the sea holly or seaside eryngo, is a species of Eryngium in the plant family Apiaceae and native to most European coastlines. It resembles a plume thistle in that its flower is burr-shaped, but the flowers are metallic blue rather than mauve. Protected from winds this dune plant grows to a height of 20 to 60 cm. Although widespread, it is considered endangered in many areas, such as Germany where its occurrence has been greatly reduced throughout and has become locally extinct in several districts.
In Elizabethan times in England, these plants were believed to be a strong aphrodisiac. They are named in a speech by Falstaff:
“"Let the sky rain potatoes;
let it thunder to the tune of Green-sleeves,
hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes [sea-holly],
let there come a tempest of provocation..."”
— Falstaff, Act 5, scene v, "The Merry Wives of Windsor", William Shakespeare
Au cours des trois dernières décennies, Van Lieshout a construit une pratique multidisciplinaire qui crée des œuvres à la frontière entre l'art, le design et l'architecture. Explorant la mince frontière entre faire de l'art et produire en masse des objets fonctionnels, il tente de trouver les frontières entre fantasme et fonction, entre fertilité et destruction. Van Lieshout dissèque les systèmes, qu'il s'agisse de la société dans son ensemble ou du corps humain. Toutes ces activités sont menées dans le style de provocation propre à Van Lieshout, qu'il soit politique ou matériel. Ses œuvres partagent un certain nombre de thèmes, de motifs et d'obsessions récurrents : les systèmes, le pouvoir, l'autarcie, la vie, le sexe et la mort. Chacun d'eux suit l'individu humain face à un plus grand tout.
Over the past three decades, Van Lieshout has built a multidisciplinary practice that creates works on the border between art, design and architecture. Exploring the fine line between making art and mass-producing functional objects, he tries to find the boundaries between fantasy and function, between fertility and destruction. Van Lieshout dissects systems, whether society as a whole or the human body. All of these activities are carried out in Van Lieshout's style of provocation, whether political or material. Her works share a number of recurring themes, motifs and obsessions: systems, power, self-sufficiency, life, sex and death. Each of them follows the human individual in the face of a greater whole.