Somewhere

I am a bad blogger. Sorry for that.
This is my apology. A mixture of pastels, flowers, bows and chiffon, which never gets old, I guess.

Primavera

Cinnamon

Is it just me, or does Alix, the Cherry Blossom Girl, takes the most beautiful défilé photographs?

Colours

Yellow is the colour of my true love's hair
In the mornin' when we rise,
In the mornin' when we rise,
That's the time, that's the time,
I love the best.
Blue's the colour of the sky
In the mornin' when we rise,
In the mornin' when we rise.
in the mornin' when we rise.
That's the time, that's the time
I love the best.
Green's the colour of the sparklin' corn
In the mornin' when we rise,
In the mornin' when we rise.
in the mornin' when we rise.
That's the time, that's the time
I love the best.
Mellow is the feeling that I get
when I see her, mm hmm,
when I see her, uh huh.
That's the time, that's the time
I love the best.
Freedom is a word I rarely use
Without thinkin', mm hmm,
Without thinkin', mm hmm,
Of the time, of the time
When I've been loved.

Lyrics - Donovan

Photos: Ronald Dick for POP #22, Spring Summer 2010

It's my Birthday today.

Have a great weekend!

The Royal Couple

Bird of paradise

RIP Alexander.

It has been a whole year since I've started blogging!
Thank you guys for visiting and leaving your sweet comments. I hope this little place has made you a bit happier or has inspired you in any way...

Dark Was the Night

Pretty dresses for a cold, dark, morbid night. (yes, we all have those nights, don't we?)

Givenchy couture spring 2010

Winter Sun

All photos from Lolita

III Things I would like

To live here


To wear this


To lick my fingers after eating this

This is a new decade

I wish you all a fulfilling new year. Filled with love, dreams, nature, friends and family.

A definition

Romanticism is the primitive, the untutored, it is youth, life, the exuberant sense of life of the natural man, but it is also pallor, fever, disease, decadence, the maladie de siècle, La Belle Dame Sans Merci, the Dance of Death, indeed Death itself. It is Shelley's dome of many-coloured glass, and it is also his white radiance of eternity. It is the confused teeming fullness and richness of life, Fülle des Lebens, inexhaustible multiplicity, turbulence, violence, conflict, chaos, but also it is peace, oneness with the great `I Am', harmony with the natural order, the music of the spheres, dissolution in the eternal all-containing spirit. It is the strange, the exotic, the grotesque, the mysterious, the supernatural, ruins, moonlight, enchanted castles, hunting horns, elves, giants, griffins, falling water, the old mill on the Floss, darkness and the powers of darkness, phantoms, vampires, nameless terror, the irrational, the unutterable. Also it is the familiar, the sense of one's unique tradition, joy in the smiling aspect of everyday nature, and the accustomed sights and sounds of contented, simple, rural folk — the sane and happy wisdom of rosy-checked sons of the soil. It is the ancient, the historic, it is Gothic cathedrals, mists of antiquity, ancient roots and the old order with its unanalysable qualities, its profound but inexpressible loyalties, the impalpable, the imponderable. Also it is the pursuit of novelty, revolutionary change, concern with the fleeting present, desire to live in the moment, rejection of knowledge, past and future, the pastoral idyll of happy innocence, joy in the passing instant, a sense of timelessness. It is nostalgia, it is reverie, it is intoxicating dreams, it is sweet melancholy and bitter melancholy, solitude, the sufferings of exile, the sense of alienation, roaming in remote places, especially the East, and in remote times, especially the Middle Ages. But also it is happy co-operation in a common creative effort, the sense of forming part of a Church, a class, a party, a tradition, a great and all-containing symmetrical hierarchy, knights and retainers, the ranks of the Church, organic social ties, mystic unity, one faith, one land, one blood, `la terre et les morts', as Barrès said, the great society of the dead and the living and the yet unborn.

*This is a part of Isaiah Berlin's first chapter in the book "The Roots of Romanticism". Although it refers to the historical definition of Romanticism as a movement, I just thought it is beautifully written, and somehow fits in this little blog.

Please sir, may I have some more?

You can't beat Repetto's ballet flats. I want them in every color.