Bilingues & Artistes
Issue n째6 October 2010
« Fashions fade, style is eternal » Yves Saint-Laurent
Welcome to the world of art, where everything goes! As you may have noticed, this ‘Bilingue et Artistes’ edition is a homage to the extravanzant world of fashion! All those who consider fashion to be a way of epxressing your personality, and who believe in its virtues will be pleased to find reviews, photos and original artwork pertaining to this domain. For all of those who are more sensitive to the more literary aspect of the magazine, don’t be worried: this edition is your habitual treasure chest of poems, lyrics, and more which will without a doubt leave you craving for more! ~Louis and Rachel~
« Art is magic delivered from the lie of being truth ». Theodor Adorno Editors in Chief: Louis Denizet, Ter L Rachel Forster, Ter L Writers: Rachel Forster, Ter L Louis Denizet, Ter L Aisling Martin, 1°IB Paige Werner, 1°IB Matthew BroadbentBroadbent-Meznaric, 1°IB Ella Toulouse, 3°7 Artists: Margot Bravi, Ter L Stephanie Lee, 1°IB Photographers: Deborah Letter, Ter L Thomas Sittler, 3°4
Art by Margot Bravi, TerL
An Introduction to Fashion... While all of us are worrying about getting a warm winter coat before the suddenly harsh Paris weather settles in for good, the world of fashion seems already to have everything set for Spring 2011. In fact, while we were all stripping away those heavy winter layers last time the sun’s hibernation period ended, designers were already planning a year ahead of schedule. Fashion is a rushed, busy, sometimes stressful and judgmental world. Fashion is always forward, ahead, “avant-garde”, something it prides itself on. It is serious, miserable, but also humorous and fun at the same time. “Fashion is not art,” once said Rei Kawakubo, founder and current designer of the highly influential brand, Comme des Garçons. Kawakubo rightly said so. Japanese being her first language, she nevertheless chose her words quite carefully in English. Indeed, it is not the fashion world itself that is art, but what is created inside of it, what is produced by designers, artists by definition. Nothing but a certain fascination with ornamenting, embellishing and transforming the human body sets them apart from painters, photographers, musicians, or any other type of creative minds “traditionally” regarded as being artists. Season after season, they deliver collections, often based around a theme, whether abstract or literal, allowing the admirer to wander off into their own mind and make what they want of the collection. I often think of these collections as being riddles, though open for interpretation. There are hints in the clothes, some kind of a story behind each detail, or perhaps an overall mood. There may be a certain feeling the designer is trying to convey through his or her work but the admirer is always free to understand it however he or she may like to. Aside from all practical reasons, what is so great about clothes is their ability to evoke a certain feeling, show a certain personality, or even transmit a particular message. So without further ado…
Prada Review! Arizona Muse stepped out onto the crisp white, almost hospital-esque catwalk in a perfectly cut, bright orange (most likely fluorescent) knee-length dress. Her hair swept into a 1920’s flapper hairdo, it looked as though she was leaving her workplace. As the next few looks flew by, it became obvious that the Prada girl was not coming home from work, but travelling to faraway places. She was flying to Africa, hence the monkey, banana and occasionally pineapple prints. Whimsical sunglasses made the often delicate-looking models resemble monkeys (in the best possible way) and women carrying vases on their heads made several appearances on spaghetti strap slips. Later on, she made her way over to Mexico, where she got a hold of striped sombreros, creating optical illusions when paired with striped dresses and fur stoles. She was travelling across the world, but also in time. The 1920s hair, and occasional 17th century cherub prints demonstrated this. The words Miuccia Prada used to describe this collection were “minimal baroque”. The collection touched many different themes, and the spectator saw Ms. Prada’s inspiration expanding throughout the show. There was something over-the-top and very baroque about cherub prints, untamed swirls in both sunglasses and clothing, and striped fur stoles. Nevertheless, all was coherent, formed a whole. The prints were silly, extravagant, but the shapes reduced, simplified, minimalistic. Towards the end, several models walked down the runway in beautifully cut black dresses, reinforcing this minimalistic idea that Miuccia Prada had intended this show. Perhaps they were meant to mark an end to the enthralling trip Ms. Prada carried us off to for her Spring Summer 2011 collection. By Ella Toulouse, 3°7
Shoes: Ella’s favorites
1) Meadham Kirchhoff’s baroque, Louis XIV reminiscent chunky heels. 2) Mario Schwab’s shortened cowboy boots with an added heel. 3) Alexander McQueen’s beautifully ornamented wedge. 4) Nicolas Kirkwood working marvels at Rodarte once again with these carved wooden wedges, and Chinese inspired designs. All runway and shoe photos from ‘style.com’ and ‘vogue.com’.
« Untitled »
We are the overprivileged generation. Given everything By parents who worked their way up, we want Nothing but to explore the forbidden -- to try what we've been told is no good. We want To be sure our life's path is our own. We want To make our own mistakes -- learn from our experiences -- but Above all we want to live. What is Frowned upon is attractive, to reach The highest of highs and the lowest of lows -- to feel Every emotion we can know. The poor don't have enough. We have too much. All at Our fingertips. Every need Is satisfied, every want Is relieved -- private education, the best of the best. The glitch that is always unseeb -- there is nothing more we can want. We see what They've obtained and how imperfect it is -- how it is never a blessing but a curse. What we see makes us sick -The hollow success reflecting in our eyes. Others can go up, We can only go down.
By Paige Werner, 1°IB
« I’m changing all the colours from the brightest reds to greys »
Like a candle Flickering in the Winds of life, Happiness wavers. All the parties The late nights Of dancing crowds Of drinking masses. A screen for the Cold misery That surrounds me; A football field huddle. The sparkly dress gone The glass slipper smashed But Im no Cinderella There’s no prince. So when the disco ball Stops sparkling and Reality switches on She’s beaten by the harsh rays. She realizes all Over again That she’s well and Truly alone.
By Aisling Martin, 1°IB
« Baby I like it, the way you move on the floor »
The dancefloor is my playground The music is my band-aid The barman is my bestfriend Do you wanna be my bully? Throw your hands up in the air Give it your all, give it The breath from your body The pulse of your blood. We're living for tonight Tomorrow's a lifetime away Leave your conscience with The bouncer at the door. And sell your mortal soul For the bottle of tequila Let the DJ own you, Be your puppeteer. Dont be afraid, Take the bottle now Dance the song till you die Take this one risk. We'll all wake up In the afternoon Wondering what had Happened anyways.
By Aisling Martin, 1°IB
Photos by Deborah Letter, TerL
Sous le Ciel la Mort Attend Sous la pluie, j’attends, Tombe l’eau, Souffle le vent. Les taxis passent, Aucun s’arrête. Ma silhouette noire ne reflète En leurs cœurs aucune image candide, Aucune image claire. Car de brun est peinte ma peau, Ma chair. Sous la pluie, j’attends, Tourne l’heure, passe le temps. Mon amant n’est pas en vue. Mais cela je ne le sus : En sortant, l’attaquèrent des meurtriers, Avec son sang, tracèrent-ils Ces mots éventreurs : « crève, pédé ! ». Étalé sur le mur mon cœur se devine. Sous la pluie, j’attends, La lumière se fait, sa main se tend. « Maman ! Maman ! » s’écrie ma fille. Dans la nappe de brume, ses yeux, d’espoir, brillent. La voiture s’arrête. L’obscurité se fait, les silhouettes se voilent. Les pierres sur les tombes de nos pères tremblent. Dans cette nuit j’aperçois une étoile. Tels des démons notre cauchemar se dévoile. De ce chariot pâle il me semble Parvenir un gémissement et un mortel « Jawohl ». Sous le soleil éclatant, j’attends, Mes amies viennent, j’entends leur chant. Nous célébrons notre découverte. Grâce à notre excellent bac S, notre vie s’est ouverte. Le calendrier retrousse, en 1929 nous nous trouvons. Nos maris reviennent et avec dédain Ils nous proclament : « J’ai faim ». Notre vie se referme et avec fatigue nous cuisinons. Sous le ciel grisâtre, nous sommes des esclaves. Notre effort, notre esprit est éteint par notre sexe, notre enclave.
By Matthew Broadbent-Meznaric, 1°IB
REQUIEM TRANCE INTO
MY BLOOD IS THE SPIRIT SUFFUSED,
EVERY NERVE, EVERY KNOT, CARESSED BY THE MELODY. AS I FALL, AS I SWOON, AS THE ECSTASY SUBDUES ME, THE MOON CRIES OUT FOR
THE EBON SHROUD OF PLACIDITY
TO AS ONTO
VEIL OVER ME.
IT SHRIEKS, BELLOWS AND CHANTS
THE CASKET IS THE REQUIEM ENGRAVED.
BY MATTHEW BROADBENT-MEZNARIC, 1째IB
Photo by Thomas Sittler, 3째4
We Are The Original We are the original Gold collected off the floor We are the criminal Who kill the intellectual Not all who paint their faces black, Not all who wear glittered clothes, Signify any alteration to our world Apart perhaps personal satisfaction We are the original Rejected ugly; really beautiful We are the imperial Who paint personal empires Not all that glimmers is perfect, Not all that hides in the darkness is sinful, Inspiration can be found in the flaws you carry Not in the golden locks of superficiality
By Louis Denizet, TerL
Photo by Thomas Sittler, 3째4
"I dream a lot. I do more painting when I'm not painting. It's in the subconscious." - Andrew Wythe
Art by: Stephanie Lee, 1째IB
Zebra I am a zebra. On my back, I have a world of white and black Stripes. No ones looks at my head, My eyes, my heart. Only the stripes. White is for purity, grace, innocence, For the sweet arms of motherhood. Black is for sorrow, dirt, corruption And the kohl tears on pasty cheeks. Light is for laughter, love, pride, Open hearts and outstretched hands. Dark is for ignorance, prejudice, Hard words staining like cherry juice. One is for the cold, bare gleam of Hospital corridors and starched nurses. The other is the dark warmth of sheets, And the rich luxury of melting chocolate. Am I white-striped on black, black-striped on white? And in truth, sheâ€™s neither. And in truth, sheâ€™s both. The glass is half full until it Becomes half-empty. I am a zebra. On my back, I have a world of white and black Stripes. No ones looks at my head, My eyes, my heart. Only the stripes.
By Rachel Forster, TerL
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