Sky Blue Review - N°1 by Sky Blue Review

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SKY BLUE

P R I N T E M P S - É T É

2 0 1 9 ,

N U M É R O

SKY BLUE NUMERO 1

Numéro

Juin

Périodique

2019 semestrielle

Éditeur et directeur de publication: James 6

V. rue

Saint

75008,

Thomas Petersbourg Paris

SKY BLUE

Dépôt

légal

Impression Offset M.

faite Pringin

Prix

house

Vilnius, en

2019 par

Čiurlionio

LT-03100 ISSN

Juin

cour vente:

NUMÉRO 1

: KOPA

82a,

Lithuania d’attribution 17,00

€

⁄ de

Po S ussiè o d r u es ’ tendrveniétoil es rs esse ,

⁄

couverture,

Tanaig,

photographié

par

Tim

Zaragoza,

porte

costume

Husbands

Paris

EDITO

par

James

15 16

78 89 104

Thomas

CONTRIBUTEURS

UNE

JOURNÉE

44 50

PARFAITE

FEU

photographié

SACRÉ

par

NO MATTER WHAT, I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU.

LIMITED

STAR PORTRAITS

DORIANNE

photographié

106

par

Galerie Marchande AT

YOUR

Alice

Rosati

Jean-Assem

EDITION

GRAY,

Par

Privé

Valentin

Jules

photographié

SERVICE

Giacobetti

Romm

par

Tim

Zaragoza

Dorianne

Gray

STOCKISTS NUMÉRO 1

Sky Blue est une publication qui célèbre l’amour et la fantaisie. Ayant travaillé dans la mode depuis les 10 dernières années, j’ai ressenti le besoin d’exprimer mes désirs créatifs, et de créer une publication qui ne montre pas seulement la mode, mais également des narratifs romantiques. En réunissant des photographes de grand talent ainsi que des nouveaux écrivains talentueux, j’ai souhaité créer un univers libre NUMÉRO 1

des inhibitions contemporaines, et purement orienté vers l’amour tendre. Je n’ai pas voulu présenter du désir sexuel gratuit; j’ai cherché à presenter un monde qui n’a peut-être jamais existé, mais qui était au moins plus innocent que notre ère des applications faciles et des nuits fugaces. J’ose dire que la romance est soit disant morte, mais qu'elle reste brûler dans notre for intérieur. Poussières d’étoiles, ou souvenirs de 12

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tendresse, a été le titre le plus adéquat que j’ai pu trouver pour distinguer cette émotion silencieuse. Distance, rêverie, tendres souvenirs de jeunesse, ou une époque déjà lointaine. J’espère que vous aimerez notre 1 numèro de Sky Blue, j’ai hâte de vous er

retrouver à l’issue des prochains numéros.

James V. Thomas NUMÉRO 1

RÉDACTEUR-EN-CHEF ET DIRECTEUR MODE

James V. Thomas ASSISTANTS AYANT CONTRIBUÉ À CE NUMÉRO

GRAPHISTE

Jules Banide

Livia D. Rossi Ophélie Cozette Cosimo Fanciualacci Valentina Bizzarra COIFFEURS ET MAQUILLEURS

Yann Turchi Caroline Fenouil Chiao Chenet Elsa Olson Jorge Morandeira

DIRECTION CASTING

Ikki Casting Jordan Mergirie 14

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lice Rosati : née en 1985, artiste, photographe autodidacte et directeur artistique basée à Paris. A l’age de 4 ans, Alice a reçu son premier appareil photo - un petit appareil de Ninja Turtles, mais il faudra attendre 2008 pour qu’elle démarre sa carrière en tant que photographe de mode. Elle a commencé son éducation de l’art de visuel dans l’agence de publicité de son père et a été diplômée en histoire de l’art, et a exposé ses propres œuvres dans divers galeries et musées. Sa carrière a pris un tour décisif comme en témoignent les parutions dans des magazines majeurs tels que Vogue, Visionaire, Love magazine et bien d’autres. Site officiel: www.alicerosati.com

alentin est né à Paris en 1984 et y a grandi et étudié. Il est parti vivre à Londres et à Hongkong entre 2003 et 2005. Rentré à l’école des Beaux-Arts à Paris en 2005, il en sort diplômé en 2011. Il a commencé depuis une carrière de photographe en free-lance et fait partie actuellement de l’agence Art Bord.

Jules Romm

Jean Assem Privé

Tim Zaragoza

Valentin B. Giacobetti

Alice Rosati

PHOTOGRAPHES POUR CE NUMÉRO

AUTEURS AYANT CONTRIBUÉ À CE NUMÉRO :

im Zaragoza a démarré sa carrière en tant que fabricant d’image dans la scène iconoclaste et internationale de Brooklyn. Ses racines dans la mode viennent d’avoir assisté le photographe Anglais, Richard Burbridge. Le travail de Tim est à la fois intime et conceptuel, rejoignant dans la symbiose esthétique le metier et l’instant culturel. Tim habite actuellement entre New York et Paris.

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é le 28.04.1991 à Abidjan, en Côte d’Ivoire, sous les cocotiers. Je déménage à l’âge de 14 ans au Liban, je fuis les problèmes. Sur ma terre d’origine, je vis à Beyrouth, les yeux qui brillent. 16 ans, je redéménage, cette fois-ci à Toulouse, la ville rose. 18 ans, BAC en poche, je quitte le sud pour Paris et ses bistrots. 21 ans, diplômé d’ESMOD, je décroche un stage chez Stiletto. J’obtiens mon premier contrat comme rédacteur mode/culture. J’évolue sous le regard de Laurence Benaïm, j’écris en prose. Suite à la fermeture du magazine, je vole de mes propres ailes. Je fais de la com chez Totem, j’écris aussi pour Playboy France. J’écoute Oum Kalthoum, je lis Sagan, j’adore Paris à la vie. J’admire Wong Kar Waï, je voyage, je m’évade, je respire. Je garde ma curiosité et mon envie d’écrire encore et toujours.

ules Romm est une écrivaine Américaine. Sa première oeuvre a été publiée dans « The anthology of poetry by young Americans » à l’age de 8 ans. Depuis, elle a travaillé pour « the literary review » et a été journaliste d’art pour diverses publications. Diplômée d’un master d’écriture à la nouvelle City University of London, elle a été primée par Peters Fraser et Dunlop à Londres pour sa premiere nouvelle « Glen Rio ». Cette nouvelle a reçu depuis le copyright officiel de la bibliothèque du congrès des États Unis, et du bureau du copyright des États Unis.

UNE JOURNÉE PA R FA ITE

P H O T O G R A P H I É R É A L I S É P A R 16

P A R A L I C E J A M E S V . SKY BLUE

R O S A T I T H O M A S

NUMÉRO 1

Quentin

Thijs

gauhe,

droite,

gilet gilet

: et

Cerruti 1881, pantalon

slip :

: DSquared2,

HOM,

chaussettes chaussettes

Falke Falke.

SKY BLUE

Thijs,

Quentin,

chemise

peignoir

vintage

: Gucci,

slip

Charvet, :

sandales HOM,

: chaussettes

Falke.

Manolo Blahnik

NUMÉRO 1

manteau

RÈGNE FILS,

costume

Dries Van Noten,

lunettes

Moscot

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Quentin,

Thijs,

chemise

vintage peignoir

Gucci Charvet

NUMÉRO 1

pantalon haut

Quentin,

Thijs,

: :

Marni

DSquared2

blouson

pantalon

Dries Van Noten,

carré

soie

Charvet

NUMÉRO 1

Quentin,

Thijs, costume

Acne

slip Studios,

foulard

: Charvet,

chaussons

HOM Marni

SKY BLUE

Quentin,

Thijs,

costume

chemise

Cerruti 1881, Dries Van Noten,

chemise

veste

: :

Brunello Cucinelli,

Brunello Cucinelli, noeud

noeud papillon

papillon

: :

Charvet

NUMÉRO 1

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Quentin,

Thijs,

costume

chemise

: :

Cerruti 1881, Dries Van Noten,

chemise

veste

: :

Brunello Cucinelli,

Brunello Cucinelli, noeud

noeud papillon

papillon

: :

Charvet Charvet

Thijs,

Quentin,

pull

anorak

sans

manches :

Ami Paris,

Polo Ralph Lauren

disponible

chez pantalon

Mr. Porter, et

pantalon

Cerruti 1881, chaussures

chaussures

Manolo Blahnik Dries Van Noten

SKY BLUE

lunettes

Moscot,

manteau

RÈGNE FILS

pull

Missoni,

costume

Wooyoungmi,

lunettes

Moscot,

sandales

Manolo Blahnik

SKY BLUE

costume chemise

Quentin,

Thijs,

et :

pull

Brunello Cucinelli,

Dries Van Noten,

ceinture pull

Gucci

vintage

chez

chaussettes

disponible

Gucci,

chaussures

Mr. Porter,

Falke,

: slip

HOM.

Manolo Blahnik.

NUMÉRO 1

Acne Studios

Dries Van Noten :

: chaussures chaussures

Falke, :

Helmut Lang,

chaussettes Charvet,

: vintage

cravate Moscot,

lunettes

: lunettes

Lanvin,

Y/Project, : : manteau

pantalon

Ami Paris,

Coiffure : Chiao Chenet chez Atomo Management, assisté par Heitai Cheung

pantalon

Directeur de casting : Jordan Mergirie

pullover

Assistants Photographe : Valentina Bizzarra Cosimo Fanciullacci

Missoni,

Lanvin,

Mannequins : Quentin Demeester chez Success Men, Thijs Claassen chez City Models

veste

Maquillage : Elsa Olson chez Calliste

Quentin, SKY BLUE

pull

Vidéographeur (vidéos réalisé pour notre site, skybluereview.com, et notre instagram @SkyBlueReview) : Anna Prokulevich

Thijs,

chemise

Assistant styliste : Livia Rossi

La Villa Cavrois, qui se trouve aux portes de Lille dans le village de Croix, a eu la gentillesse de nous recevoir pour cet éditorial photo. Mais notez que les portes ne sont pas seulement ouvertes pour Sky Blue… les visiteurs peuvent s’y rendre, vérifiez les horaires et l’accès depuis le site web de la Villa Cavrois : www.villa-cavrois.fr. +33 (0)3 20 73 47 12 60 Avenue Kennedy, 59170 Croix, 42

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NUMÉRO 1

FEU S P A R 44

J E A N - A SKY BLUE

ACR É S S

P NUMÉRO 1

É 45

01:30

La lune semble timide derrière le rideau pourpre qui ondule au gré du vent. Elle est loin en cette douce nuit d’été, comme un phare dans la nuit, murmurant des paroles suaves à mon oreille. Les gens me prennent pour un fou lorsque je dis que la lune parle, mais je vous assure et jamais je n’oserais mentir, elle parle ! Enfin, elle s’exprime pour être plus précis. Et quel spectacle enchanteur elle nous donne, lorsqu’elle illumine le marbre rose des palais ottomans ou qu’elle révèle par magie sous les étoiles dans la clairière, un concerto de lis et de jasmins. Trop peu remarquent ce que la nature nous a donné, trop occupés à regarder les icônes et les images qui défilent sur leurs écrans sans en saisir vraiment le sens. « Tu es trop déconnecté de la réalité », « non ce que tu affirmes n’est pas vrai, c’est un pur produit de ton imagination. » J’ai entendu ces mots tellement de fois déjà et je n’ai que vingt-sept ans. Mais qu’est-ce que la réalité ? C’est bien celle à laquelle on veut croire. Et la vérité ? Celle des livres écrits par des hommes qu’on ne connaît pas et par une science que l’on a jugée juste ? Non, je n’y crois pas. Après tout, comme tout le monde je crois à ce que je vois. Et lorsque je vois la lune, je vois une beauté éclairée faite pour apaiser les hommes. Ne serais-je donc jamais compris ? Marcel Proust et Yves Saint Laurent étaient-ils les derniers sur terre ? N’y a-t-il donc plus de romantiques au XXIème siècle ? Mes paupières sont lourdes, je m’endors, la soie caresse mon corps et je me demande si un jour je verrai en la soie, l’homme qui caressera mon coeur.

FÉROCE EST TON ÂME, PRISON DE MES LARMES, LES FLAMMES DE TES YEUX PERDUES DANS L’OMBRE DE MON DRAME. LE SOURIRE FIGÉ, LA LUNE SEMBLE CRIER, TON HEURE A SONNÉ. L’AURA EN ÉMOI, LE SOUFFLE AUX ABOIS, UNE DERNIÈRE VALSE ET L’ABYSSE EST À TOI. 09:00

La lune m’a donné des idées. J’écris ce poème pour un amour perdu. Mais pourquoi ne pas lui envoyer un sms comme tout le monde me direzvous ? Je sais, mais cela ne m’inspire en rien. Qu’y a-t-il de plus beau et de plus inspirant que de voir l’encre de la plume laisser les mots s’évaporer sur la feuille ? Au réveil les draps sont encore imprégnés d’Oud. De la fenêtre de mon palais, je constate que la vie reprend son cours, que le soleil a remplacé la lune et que la voisine du deuxième étage, bâtiment B, est fin prête à commencer sa journée comme chaque matin en promenant

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son chien. Un palais ? Mais de quoi parle-t-il ? Mais bien sûr, même un trente mètres carrés parisien peut être un palais. Tout est encore une fois ici question de la perception que l’on se fait de son environnement. L’Oud sur la soie me transporte, l’illusion des brocarts d’or et de la fumée du narguilé laisse place à la contemplation. Le tourne-disque redonne vie à Oum Kalthoum, je la sens près de moi, prête à m’envoûter de sa voix mélancolique. « Ô mon coeur, ne me demande pas où notre amour s’en est allé, ce n’était qu’un palais de mon imagination et il s’est effondré. Sers-moi un verre et bois en souvenir de ses ruines. » Je me demande alors lorsque je l’écoute, si Oum Kalthoum et moi ne partageons pas le même palais, celui de l’imagination et de la désillusion. « Tu es trop dans ton monde et marginal, tu ne réussiras jamais au sein de la société » m’avait dit un jour un de mes amants. Quels mots lourds et pompeux il avait alors employés. Je fis alors remarquer à ce charmant jeune homme que les excentriques sont pour la plupart ceux qui ont façonné l’histoire et la culture. Que serait la littérature sans Oscar Wilde, la France sans Napoléon, l’Egypte sans Cléopâtre ou encore notre époque sans Steve Jobs ? Il décida de me quitter sur le champ. Je pensais pourtant que mettre en avant l’exemple d’Apple jouerait en ma faveur, vu que c’est dans l’air du temps. Cela faisait trois jours que nous vivions notre idylle. Frédéric Beigbeder a affirmé que l’amour dure trois ans mais il s’est trompé, il dure trois jours en 2019. Et si ce n’est pas parce que vous êtes un brin original alors c’est au son du téléphone qui annonce la nouvelle conquête sur Grindr, que le coeur balance pour un nouvel éphèbe. Mais alors me demandais-je dans ce contexte, qui voudra bien m’aimer ?

SE DESSINE DANS MES RÊVES LES PLUS FOUS, LE PAYSAGE FIGÉ DE SON REGARD ÉCLAIRÉ, LÀ OÙ SON OMBRE S’EST ENVOLÉE. LES COULEURS DE SON SOURIRE S’ÉCHAPPENT DE LA TOILE, LÀ OÙ SON CORPS PREND LE VOILE. LES FLEURS DE SON COEUR ONT ÉCLOS, SON ILLUSION ME REND DÉJÀ ACCRO. 14:00

La faim me guette mais j’écris ces lignes en pensant au garçon que je rencontre ce soir. Oui, j’ai laissé de côté l’idée de rencontrer au détour d’une ruelle ou dans un musée mon amant et je me suis inscris sur une application. « Ce n’est que dans les films que ça arrive » me rabâchait une amie. NUMÉRO 1

« Le prince charmant n’existe pas ». Ceci dit, elle n’avait peutêtre pas tort. Mais je n’ai en aucun cas envie d’un prince charmant qui arrive à mon secours sur son cheval blanc. Je ne peux pas les voir en peinture, ces princes. Non, moi ce que je veux c’est un esthète, un amoureux de la beauté. Quelqu’un qui lorsqu’il voit un tableau de John Everett Millais ne voit pas qu’une femme rousse dans les bois mais une incandescence de la nature, le feu de la passion. Quelqu’un qui lorsqu’il admire un tableau de Frida Kahlo, ne voit pas que des cheveux coupés au sol mais la plus belle chose qui soit, celle d’accepter sa douleur et de briser ses propres chaînes. Je veux pouvoir contempler avec lui Paris qui se réveille, du haut de la butte Montmartre et entendre les oiseaux chanter pour le lever du soleil. Lui lire les plus belles lettres de Verlaine à Rimbaud, pouvoir lui dire « veux-tu que je t’embrasse en crevant ? » tout en me plongeant dans ses yeux. Alors oui, je me réjouis d’un garçon avec qui j’entretiens depuis maintenant une semaine une relation épistolaire. D’habitude la conversation démarre par un « ça va ? » et termine quelques mots plus tard par « on prend un verre ? » ou « tu viens chez moi ? ». On ne prend même plus le temps de découvrir qui l’on s’apprête à voir. Il ne faut pas perdre trop de temps sans se voir car en vrai il pourrait ne pas plaire. Quelle tristesse. Ce mystère qui entoure la personne à qui l’on parle, ces échanges qui attisent le feu sacré. C’est bien là le propre de la personne qui voit le beau, car il y a de l’attirance dans les mots. Ce garçon mystérieux me donne l’agréable sensation que je vais m’évader en l’écoutant. Il est hors du temps et il connaît Khalil Gibran, il n’a pourtant que vingt ans ! Il y a-t-il une infime chance que je ne sois pas le dernier romantique sur cette terre ? Chamboulé et intrigué je me prépare minutieusement en dessinant au gré de mon imagination, le portrait de ce jeune homme.

18:00

Le temps presse, je ne sais quoi mettre. Bien des fois mes parures ont été incomprises lors de mes premiers rendez-vous. Et lorsque j’expliquais alors ma passion pour les maharajas, un mur se dressait instantanément. Ce n’est pas ma faute si l’or et l’émeraude sont essentiels à mon teint. J’ai confiance et me dis que ce garçon comprendra mon intention sans même que je n’ai à lui raconter mon histoire, il m’acceptera tel que je suis. Je quitte alors dans un sillage d’encens mon palais vers l’inconnu. Nous nous sommes donnés rendez-vous au café du Moulin-Rouge, au pied de Montmartre, là où Mistinguett

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avait trouvé l’amour et la passion et où Josephine Baker faisait tourner les têtes et brisait les tabous. Je prends la ligne 2, mon quotidien, et j’aperçois comme chaque matin la vieille dame du 3e étage d’un sublime immeuble Haussmannien qui contemple de sa fenêtre son quartier, Barbès, qui a bien changé depuis son enfance. Je ressens tout à coup sa nostalgie. Jamais je ne m’étais plongé dans ses pensées. Tout va tellement vite, le métro, le monde, les écrans, la vie, quand avons-nous le temps de regarder les gens qui nous entourent ? Mon esprit se met alors le long du trajet à repenser à ce qui a fait de moi l’homme que je suis, cette énigme de la société. Je me dis que l’on ne peut être « normal » lorsque l’on a grandi bercé à la fois par Fayrouz et Edith Piaf. Que l’on est né en Côte d’Ivoire, que l’on a connu la guerre, que l’on a vu la mort à 14 ans et que l’on a vécu entre Beyrouth et Paris avec un père peintre dont le langage n’était autre que celui de Picasso. Tout ça en à peine 27 ans. La passion, le feu sacré, je l’ai en moi et je souhaite la partager avec autrui. Il n’y a pour moi, pas l’ombre d’une vie sans passion. La voix froide du métro m’annonce que je suis arrivé à destination. Mes mains tremblent, je descends les escaliers et me met à la recherche de celui qui éveillera la flamme en moi. Je le vois alors au loin, guetter d’un air perplexe mon arrivée. Comme une illusion parmi la foule qui traverse le boulevard de Clichy, j’aperçois ce garçon aux cheveux noir de jais qui irradient dans la grisaille parisienne. Nos joues se frôlent et l’odeur de la rose qui émane de lui me transporte à Ispahan. Nous nous asseyons et nous parlons. Je me plonge dans ses yeux comme dans l’Euphrate. Sept heures plus tard, notre serveuse nous demande gentiment de bien vouloir quitter les lieux car le café ferme, il est 02h00 du matin. Le temps était comme suspendu. Sa peau caresse la mienne, nous nous tenons la main et ne voulons plus nous quitter, nous parcourons alors les rues de Paris jusqu’au lever du soleil. La réalité n’est plus un fardeau que je porte en moi et plus jamais je ne quitterai son regard.

IL EST LE FANTÔME DE MES RÊVES, LA FURIE AVANT LA TRÊVE. IL EST LE FOUET DU VELOURS, FANTASME D’UN AMOUR EN RETOUR. IL EST L’ÉCLAT DE L’OR, PROMESSE D’UN AMOUR SANS DÉTOUR.

NUMÉRO 1

NO MATTER WHAT, I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU.

PHOTOGRAPHIÉ PAR VALENTIN B. GIACOBETTI R É A L I S É P A R J A M E S V . T H O M A S 50

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NUMÉRO 1

Josh

Surveste

MiuMiu (vintage),

Veste

Mr. P par

Mr.

Porter,

Foulard

Charvet,

Bracelet

Bottega Veneta

disponible

chez

Matches Fashion,

Bague

Dary’s Paris

Eric

Josh

gauche,

droite,

Veste

Manteau

Lanvin,

Chemise,

Brunello Cucinelli,

Pull

: noeud

John Smedley papillon,

ceinture

disponible de

chez

Mr. Porter, smoking

Charvet,

Pantalon

Dunhill, Pantalon

Lunettes

: Fursac,

disponible

Chaussettes

Gucci :

Falke,

chez Chaussures

Mr. Porter, :

Écharpe

: Manolo

Blahnik

Charvet

NUMÉRO 1

Veste Veste

: :

Husbands Paris,

Miu Miu (vintage), Pull

John Smedley

SKY BLUE

Lunettes disponible

chez

Mr. Porter,

Lunettes

Ray Ban, :

Bottega Veneta

disponible

Foulard chez

Matches Fashion,

NUMÉRO 1

: Carré

Charvet soie

Charvet

SKY BLUE

NUMÉRO 1

Josh,

Erik,

Veste

Pull

Pantalon

Brunello Cucinelli, :

Chemise

Hugo Boss

Cerruti 1881,

Cravate

disponible

Charvet,

Lunettes

Gucci chez

disponible

chez

Mr. Porter

SKY BLUE

Pull

drapeau

Polo Ralph Lauren

disponible

chez

Matches Fashion,

Pull

porté

sur

les

épaules

Polo Ralph Lauren

disponible

chez

Mr. Porter,

Pantalon

Rubinacci

disponible

chez

Mr. Porter,

Beret

vintage,

Bretelles

Charvet

SKY BLUE

NUMÉRO 1

Pantalon

Lanvin,

Bracelet

Dary’s Paris

SKY BLUE

Dunhill,

Cravate

Charvet

Veste et pantalon : Husbands Paris, Chemise : Figaret Paris, Cravate : Charvet, Bracelet : Bottega Veneta disponible chez Matches Fashion, Bague : Dary’s Paris, Chaussettes : Falke, Chaussures : Cerruti 1881

Chemise

NUMÉRO 1

SKY BLUE Veste

Brunello Cucinelli,

Pull

John Smedley

disponible

chez

Mr.

Porter,

Lunettes

Gucci

disponible

chez

Mr. Porter,

Écharpe

Charvet

Josh, Manteau : Dries Van Noten, Veste et pantalon : Cerutti 1881, Chemise : Figaret Paris, Cravate : Charvet , Ceinture : Gucci disponible chez Matches Fashion, Bracelet : Bottega Veneta disponible chez Matches Fashion, Bague : Dary’s Paris

Erik,

Manteau

Husbands Paris,

Pull

Polo Ralph Lauren

disponible

chez

Matches Fashion,

Chemise

Charvet,

Lunettes

Gucci

disponible

chez

Mr. Porter,

Pantalon

De Fursac

NUMÉRO 1

Veste

pantalon

Dries Van Noten,

Chemise

Brunello Cucinelli,

Cravate

Charvet,

Bague

Dary’s Paris,

Chaussures

Dunhill

SKY BLUE

Erik,

Josh,

Manteau

Blouson

Gucci

chez

Daniel W. Fletcher

disponible

Mr. Porter,

Pantalon Débardeur

: :

Mr. P

disponible Miu Miu (vintage),

chez

Mr. Porter, Pantalon

Bracelet

: Fendi

disponible

Bottega Veneta

chez

disponible

Matches Fashion, Matches Fashion,

chez

Lunettes Foulard

Charvet,

Ray Ban,

et Chaussures

Collier

bague :

Dary’s Paris Cerruti 1881

Erik,

Josh,

Serviette

plage

Blouson

Versace

disponible

chez

Mr. Porter, Fendi

Maillot

de disponible

bain

HOM, chez

Lunettes

Matches Fashion,

Ray Ban

Bracelet

: Slip

Bottega Veneta

disponible :

chez HOM

Matches Fashion

NUMÉRO 1

Manteau

pantalon

Dunhill,

Débardeur

Miu Miu

(vintage),

Bracelet

Bottega Veneta

disponible

chez

Matches Fashion,

Bague

Dary’s Paris

Veste

pantalon

: pantalon

Daniel W. Fletcher, Daniel W. Fletcher,

Débardeur

: Débardeur

Miu Miu (vintage),

Chaussures :

Dunhill Miu Miu (vintage)

Josh,

Erik,

Veste

pantalon

Cardigan

Husbands Paris,

Figaret Paris,

Dries Van Noten,

Chemise

Slip Cravate

Charvet,

: Bracelet

HOM, Bottega Veneta

chez

Lunettes disponible

: Matches Fashion,

Bague

Gucci Dary’s Paris,

disponible Chaussettes

Falke,

Chaussures

chez :

Mr. Porter Cerruti 1881

vintage

J.M. Weston :

Chaussures Falke, :

Beret

Chaussettes Charvet,

Dunhill,

: smoking de : ceinture et Bretelles

chaussures

Matches Fashion, et chez disponible

Pantalon

Bottega Veneta : Bracelet

Daniel W. Fletcher,

De Fursac, : Chemise

Directeur de casting : Nicolas Bianciotto pour Ikki Casting

Top

Charvet,

Maquillage : Caroline Fenouil chez Bryant Artists

Pantalon

Coiffure : Yann Turchi chez Bryant Artists

Josh

Assistant styliste : Ophélie Cozette SKY BLUE

Erik,

Mannequins : Josh Parkinson chez Select Management Erik Kettschick chez Marilyn Agency

L I M ITE D B 78

J SKY BLUE

E DITION E

R NUMÉRO 1

M 79

APRIL 1997 He had already cracked Peg open like a peach. The occasion, once penned by the bar’s patrons as the ‘fastest decline since modern industrialization’, now only caused Thijs great shame. He cast his glance away from the encircling crowd and towards the sole of his shoeStuck above a vibrant wad of purple Bubbleyum. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence to take place within the brick frame of The Three Pigeons. One look inside the jukebox or a singular urinal could inform anyone the establishment had little respect for hip music and halfway-decent sanitization. As he dipped a napkin into a glass of water, he bent down and rubbed until declaring himself free. Coming up slow, Thijs was met by the same pair of hooded eyes, the same waft of fragrant blackthorn, with the same juicy, unrelenting center. “Peg,” he gulped. “You know, I thought that was you. I said to Mama just yesterday, ‘Wonder whatever happened to Thijs Jones.’ He was done so fast and then, well, took off even faster.” “Yeah, that’s nice, Peg,” he responded, deadpan. “We don’t need to discuss no past, alright?” “Why the hell not?” she smirked, knowingly, before cocking her head to one side and unclipping her cropped, red hair loose of its tortoise shell clip. Thijs winced at the waft of stale Marlboro tobacco thus released. “The past is my favourite thing to talk about. Hell, we’re famous for it here in Gonzales, Louisiana.” • Three tequila shots down the drainpipe, Thijs was gone; His lanky frame acknowledging the repercussions of another evening spent doing what he ought not to. The waft of humiliation followed – Shadowing his feet like schoolchildren as he pushed the front door of the bar open and into the southern heat. “You know”, Thijs started, draping his arm around an anonymous bar patron, “my daddy used to say the south’s been governed by the Lord and made into something unearthly by the angels. ‘N for play? Hell, it can be found within the very two hands we been born with.” Stumbling on the pebbled path home, Thijs knew it only as proper punishment to throw each stone he tripped on. If he was going to get loaded at all, then he was going to throw it all to the wind. In recent years, he had moved in with his mother and grandmother, whom 80

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spent most days sitting by the attic bedroom window spying on passersby, passing by. There hadn’t been a marriage crumbling, a childhood prank unfolding, two squirrels mating that she herself didn’t bear witness to first. And as he turned the corner onto Rockingham Road, he tried to swallow his gall. He knew what he was in for; A tumbler of whisky, Korean anime, an old Macintosh computer, in his tiny bedroom with one red wall. • The sunlight cast a brilliant blaze on Thijs’s shoulders; And in the heat of his sheets, a not-so-unusual erection. Licking the palm of his hand, he got to work, flipping through a rolodex of images in his head in an attempt to block the muffled voices downstairs – That same tired television playing the same tired thing. It made him hot with anger envisioning Peg, yet he couldn’t deny the perfect tinge of her nipples – That supple pink – Those freckles trickling down from her neck to navel like constellations breaking apart on a pale, southern morning. The pumping continued as his panorama moved further down to her origin; The steaming, dripping sauna of her pussy summoning him; Engulfing him like a white chocolate covered cherry left out in the heat. Like that, he was finished, groaning, gently pulling himself for a last burst of satisfaction. ‘Fuck me, it’s everywhere,’ Thijs sighed, shaking his head free of the soft, dirty blonde bangs shading his eyes. Moving from his horizontal position like slow-pulling taffy, he began searching for anything resembling a towel; Finding one in a pair of Calvin briefs – Crumpled on the floor. He felt it only right to spark himself a joint; Paired with Curtis Mayfield’s Superfly record, it practically deemed itself perfection. “I have that,” a smooth, tenor voice declared from the entryway of the bedroom, startling Thijs. Turning around, he was met by a toned figure of the same height – A man with a platinum bun at the nape of his neck – Handsome, though slightly slouched to the right with a nasty black eye. “Sorry… what?” he replied, coughing out his last inhalation. “That’s Mayfield, isn’t it? I have that album, except it’s all scratched and plays in my car like…some kind of fuzzy hiccup on loop,” he chuckled softly. “Sorry, I don’t…Who… How’d you get in here?” “Oh. Yeah, your door was cracked open.” “Fucking thing needs to get fixed,” Thijs replied, rolling his eyes. “Look, I should be apologizing. My name’s O. I know your old lady, NUMÉRO 1

actually, she’s giving me a ride.” “You work with her at the factory or…?” “Yeah. I’m new there. I mean, I’m a musician, but…I also have rent…and bad luck. Motorbike accident,” he informed, gesturing to his one black eye. “Your mom’s giving me a lift until I get my bike back in shape.” “Well, my condolences. Maybe start wearing a helmet,” Thijs responded, flat. “You always this friendly?” “Not at nine in the morning, no.” “It’s three.” “Nine, three, whatever, you caught me at a bad time, man,” “So I see,” O declared, glancing down at Thijs’s fistful of briefs covering himself. He was nearly back to flaccid now. “Oh good, you’re awake,” a cheerful voice sang, making her way into the bedroom behind O. “Christ, it smells like an alehouse bath in here. Is that weed I smell? We talked about this, puppy.” “I know, Mama,” Thijs gulped, throwing an invisible javelin between Mama’s eyes and looking back into O’s. “Y’all mind if I get dressed now?” As they left his room, Thijs was left shaking his head loose of O’s presence. It irked him like an itch with no cause – Like a jar with no jelly. He fumbled around for his favourite dungarees – His old man’s – The only thing of any use since his dramatic departure many moons before. “Puppy!” Mama shouted from downstairs. “We got a problem down here!” • “Godforsaken thing won’t start,” she sighed, wrestling with the long chain of keys inside the ignition. “That’s because you bought a Gremlin, Mama. A used one, at that.” “It’s the carburetor,” O added from beneath the hood. “It couldn’t possibly be the carburetor. It was just in the shop,” Thijs quipped. “I know cars. I used to be in the trade.” “Then you should know the difference between a carburetor that’s fine and one that isn’t.” “Alright. That’s enough,” Mama wrestled, resting her hands on her hips and looking up to Thijs. In the daylight hour, he could see just how out of shape she had become; And despite his best efforts, it didn’t seem to make much difference. “So? Can we?” • “Thijs never lets anybody drive his wheels,” Mama chuckled from the driver’s seat – The boys in the back. “If only his passenger’s side wasn’t 82

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filled with all this junk, you could sit up here with me, O. I’d show you all the nooks and crannies of the area.” “It’s limited edition vinyl, Mama. It isn’t junk,” Thijs corrected from behind a pair of black sunglasses, his mouth in an unimpressed line. “What kind?” O inquired. “Limited edition is limited edition…” Thijs answered, matter-of-factly. “No I mean like, what genre?” “Jazz.” “Thijs’s daddy was a jazz musician,” Mama contributed. “Son-ofa-bitch couldn’t see life farther than his own trombone. Both of them.” Thijs grew hot with embarrassment, feeling a tickle on the side of his pinky finger. Looking down, O’s pinky was tracing it from root to tip, causing him to jerk away. O chuckled under his breath. Around them, the lush greenery of Louisiana continued to greet them as water does to the crawfish; Rows of motels, underdeveloped apartment complexes, Waffle Houses and signs of ‘LIVE NUDE GIRLS’ lined the streets like biscuits on a hot, buttered tray. It had reached record heat; 101 and climbing. In response, Mama turned the dial up on the air conditioning, exhaling dramatically and pulling into a gas station stop. “To hell if we’re a touch late,” she declared kicking open the car door with her foot. “It’s too hot and I need something cold to pour down this here neck. Thijs, you want something?” “I’ll take a Coke, Dottie. Thanks.” “Puppy?” “I’m good, Mama.” As she headed inside, Thijs cleared his throat and began tapping on the glass at an inchworm on the other side of the window. Tiny, green, and out-of-place, its presence annoyed him, just as O’s had. “I’m not interested,” Thijs declared, at last turning to face O. “Not interested…?” “I’m not interested in whatever it is that’s floating around in your head. Whatever little fantasies you got going on in there, go on and replace them with something else. Shit, think of a motorcycle, being in the crowd of a Skid Row concert, whatever it is you seem to be into.” “I know when people are interested. Curious.” O corrected. “You can’t honestly tell me you’re wholly-straight. I’ve been gay all my life; I can tell.” “Never said I was. I’m just not interested.” “I knew it.” “I’m not wholly straight. I still fuck around with women.” “Sure,” O chuckled, sarcastic. “Alright, then. Last time you got laid? Laid by a woman.” “It was a month ago.” NUMÉRO 1

“How long did you last?” Thijs felt all the blood travel upstream to his cheeks – The white-hot anger he’d been working so hard to contain all his life and all this morning. Unbuckling his seatbelt and exiting the car, he slammed the door shut and pulled a carton of Camel Blues from his jeans pocket. Leaning on the trunk of the car, the fervor he withheld for lighting the cigarette surprised even him; He couldn’t understand what was taking Mama so long, either. “Sorry, dude,” O offered, leaning on the trunk next to him. “I didn’t realize that was, I don’t know, a sore spot?” “I hate that bitch,” Thijs stated, to no one in particular. “Who?” “No one, the last chick I was with. I couldn’t keep it…Forget it. It’s old news.” O let it go – Removing a single toothpick from its wrapper, placing it just-so between his two front teeth. He looked down from Thijs’s eyes, to his nose, to his mouth. “It’s cool,” he offered, sucking at the toothpick. “I know when to get.”

JUNE 1997 Thijs thumbed through the wad of dollar bills in his opposite hand. Enough for the two-for-five record selection – A box of jujubees thereafter. Though they stuck to his back molars, he didn’t mind fishing for the gummy gelatin if it meant getting his money’s worth. Growing up, Mama knew just how to stretch a crisp ten on their behalf, even if it meant going to sleep at night with a nagging grumble and a middle finger shooting straight to the ceiling – Those sticky glow-in-the-dark stars mocking right back. He’d been frequenting the record and tape center ever since its arrival into town all those years before – They’d seen him develop from that same little boy with a rat-tail and loose change, to a larger boy with cropped hair and crinkled paper. “Anything limited edition?” a familiar voice asked from behind. Turning around, it was O, suckling at the straw of a blue-raspberry ICEE. Thijs gulped. “No,” he answered, uninterested, turning back around to face the crates of records. “You’re angry with me,” O declared. “Huh?” Thijs inquired, quickly swiveling around in such a way that his eyes needed time to catch up with the rest of his body. “I haven’t seen you in ages, man, so… Why 84

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would I be angry?” “It’s okay, I get it. I confused you.” “I wouldn’t flatter myself. Besides, I really don’t know you.” “That could change,” O shrugged. “I told you before, I’m not into it. Look,” Thijs sighed, making his voice low, “you’re an attractive… person…but it’s not in my pipeline. Understand? Catch my drift?” “I never did learn how to swim,” O retorted, his eyebrows perched into all-knowing arches above the dark pupils which summoned Thijs like a bad dream in a bad hour during a bad, stormy season. Thijs huffed, pushing the front door of the shop with all the might his 135-lb. body could conjure. Raging towards the lot, he was stopped before hitting the gravel by O’s hand, pulling him into the alleyway of the mini-mall, riddled with multi-tinged brick. “What the hell are you doing?” Thijs grumbled, trying to shake his arm loose of O’s grip. He failed, instead tripping over his own shoe lace, nearly falling before being caught by O himself. Before he could reach for an expletive, he was pushed against the wall, O’s two arms framing his shoulders. “We’re going to settle the score,” O instructed. “I stayed away because-” “I really don’t care that-” “Shut up,” O silenced. “That’s first of all.” “Good for you – And second of all?” Thijs asked, rolling his eyes, before finding himself interlocked with O’s lips. Firm and unrelenting, it hadn’t recalled another pair – Man or woman – Since he had discovered the use of another pair of hands aside from his own. Releasing, O stood back and removed Thijs’s sunglasses, letting them hang loose from his side like a sick man’s last hope. “Dude,” Thijs exhaled, unimpressed, before being vacuumed into O’s, yet again, his spine being pressed into the brick behind him. As O delved further, harder into Thijs’s mouth, he groaned as if mimicking the rev of his motorcycle. “Wait. Wait,” Thijs stopped. “People can see.” “No one can see,” O corrected. “I used to let off cherry bombs back here. Didn’t get caught once.” “Wow. Townspeople are dumber than I thought.” Thijs laughed in response, resting the palms of his hands on either side of O’s neck, squeezing in 4/4 time. From there, he moved them down to O’s bronze jeans button, undoing them before delving his hand beneath and cupping his entire package as though waiting for it to be filled with water. A small squeeze ensued and O exhaled, kissing the side of Thijs’s neck. “Turn around,” O instructed, but leaving zero opportunity for Thijs to do so himself. With his NUMÉRO 1

chest against the wall, Thijs was practically licking the grit from the brick – Crumbs of gravel tasting like endless winters, summers, springs, and fall. His hands behind his back, Thijs undid O’s jeans – Fumbling for his penis – Semi-erect, he pumped slowly at first before taking a beat to spit on himself, getting back to the job at hand. “God, you’re good at this. You sure you’re not wholly gay?” O asked, chuckling softly. In response, Thijs had them change positions, angrily pushing O’s back to the wall. Taking off his shirt, the sight of O’s one pierced nipple greeted him, like it had been waiting for its discovery all along. “Just let me do what I’ve been wanting to do,” Thijs demanded, squatting as he swallowed O’s penis into his mouth. At first, sucking on the head, before taking him into his throat, fully. Breathing through his nose and groaning softly caused a vibration O approved of – Tugging at Thijs’s head of hair, moving it back and forth as though in perfect synchronization. “I got one. Keep going, don’t stop,” O demanded, leveling one arm down slowly into the back pocket of his jeans as though not to disrupt Thijs’s work. He arose with a condom, ripping it apart with his teeth. “Let me,” Thijs said, taking the condom into his mouth. Using his tongue and suction motion to unravel the rubber onto O’s penis, he was impressed at his own ability – He hadn’t done so since his second or third encounter with a male, back as a teen behind a bowling alley. Turning so that, once again, Thijs was up against the wall, O entered him, moaning and releasing slow, before caverning back in. As he pumped, so did Thijs, bending so that his hands rested on his knees, providing an ideal leverage. It was at this moment, they found themselves on the ground itself – This time, Thijs on all fours. As O pumped from behind, placing both hands on the sides of Thijs’s bum, Thijs stroked his own penis – wiggling himself side to side against O. “Don’t do that.” “You don’t like it?” “I don’t want to cum yet.” “What if I went slower, like this,” Thijs suggested, arching his back further down, digging into O - Deep and intentional. “Slap it,” Thijs instructed. “It’s okay. Slap it.” O did as told and slapped, first with one palm on one cheek, then both on both. As the sound of the slaps grew louder, the pigeons searching for food nearby flew away. At this sight, Thijs made it a point to look around for other walks of life – Grateful they still remained in solitude. “It’s just you and I,” O whispered. “Just you and I.” 86

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“You missed me, didn’t you?” Thijs asked, rhetorically. “Oh yeah, I missed you,” O groaned. “Fuck, you’re so tight.” “I want you to cum on me. I want to feel it, all hot and-” “Aughghgh,” O moaned, his cloudy liquid decorating Thijs’s back like frosting in the hand of a child. “Oh my, oh my…” “I was hoping that’s why your name was O…”

SEPTEMBER 1997 Thijs glanced down at his hands as they transformed into maniacal claws in the southern darkness. ‘Could swallow a man whole,’ he thought, turning his attention to the bag of Long John Silver’s on the passenger’s seat. ‘Oh my steamin’, tasty friend, let me tell you a thing or two about a thing or two with the radio turned up real loud and static.’ O sat upright on the backseat with his feet on the red velvet interior – Naked – His penis balancing on top of his balls and his tongue licking a thin strip of tobacco paper. He had taken Thijs’s fluids as he had taken his entire summer season. On abandoned farmland, the hood of the Grand Am, in temperatures only known to those bred from the bayou. “We should get back,” Thijs stated, glancing at the digital radio. “You’re going to be late for work. I knew we should have left the lake sooner. But no, we had to stay and eat Italian ices and fool around in the public toilet.” “Fuck work – And tell me you didn’t like it,” O smirked, pressing his rolled cigarette tightly shut with his thumb and forefinger – Encircling it like two gears around a vehicular chain. “I didn’t like it,” Thijs said, flat. “Liar. You came twice.” “Okay fine, I’m lying,” Thijs smirked. “Now tell me one more thing,” O stated, wrapping each arm loosely around Thijs’s shoulders as he continued to drive down the 571 Interstate. “What’s that?” “How much more limited edition you got?”

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Star Portraits Galerie Marchande

Photographié par Tim Zaragoza Réalisé par James V. Thomas Coiffure : Jorge Morandeira chez Bryant Artists Maquillage : Caroline Fenouil chez Bryant Artists

avec Husbands Paris Charvet Miu Miu Dunhill Dries Van Noten VINTAGE

Directeur de casting : Nicolas Bianciotto pour Ikki Casting

Mannequins : Nathan Felut chez Elite Mamadou Lo chez Elite Tanaig B. chez Studio Paris Management Geoffrey C. chez M Management

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Husbands Paris TANAIG PORTE

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Charvet TANAIG PORTE

SKY BLUE

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VINTAGE

Miu Miu ARNAUD PORTE

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VINTAGE

Miu Miu ARNAUD PORTE

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Dunhill MAMADOU PORTE

100

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101

Charvet GEOFFREY PORTE

102

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103

Dries Van Noten TANAIG PORTE

DORIANNE GRAY,1 AT YOUR SERVICE

FOR EACH ISSUE, DORIANNE WILL HAND SELECT QUESTIONS TO BE ANSWERED HERE IN HER ADVICE COLUMN.

ecently I noticed that my boyfriend is obsessed with red heads, but I’m just a regular old brunette! I really love him, but I don’t feel like changing my hair color - but in the back of my head I keep thinking, he might go out one day and cheat on me with a redhead… Should I buy some hair dye, or keep by brown locks? Locks

Poor brunette! Frankly, I want to tell you to buy a red wig and put it on a sex robot to tease your friend, but let’s try to be more romantic. Why not dye your hair with a 1 day hair dye product for a couple’s special night? it’ll be great surprising gift for your boyfriend, and nice way to show him how much you love him. PS : don’t forget to put hair conditionner after 1 day of the hair dyeing. D.G.

PLEASE SEND YOUR INQUIRIES TO: DORIANNE@SKYBLUREVIEW.COM 104

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have been seeing a new guy for the past couple of months, and I’m struggling with whether or not I should tell him that I have a few other boyfriends as well - I feel like I really need to have a lot of options to find the right one. Do you think that I’m being slutty, or is it normal? Either way, should I tell him? Eric F.

Somewhat slutty, but only you know if it’s normal or not. For some points, it’s a wise strategy - make sure to never tell him. NEVER, unless he comes to you to propose an open relationship. D.G.

have been seeing the same guy for a little over two years now. We get a long pretty well, and we know each other’s families respectively. It seems like we are already tight-knit. The problem is, the sex is not there! We might have « relations » once every two months. Is this a problem, or should I feel fortunate that our families get along and we have a good situation going? Let me know Dr. Dorianne! Desperately seeking Eros

It definitely depends on what you're looking for in a couple. If your most important couple life-value is based on a harmonious family relationship, you might wznt to continue with this guy. Optionally, you could bring a little spice into your lives to seduce him more. However, if your focus is on a different value, it might to be better to change out the man. We never make love with family. You’ll know what to do. D.G.

’m having a BIG problem with my new boyfriend: He loves music that I cannot STAND. Not only does he listen to awful music, but he sings very loud all day and night! His taste in music is so bad that I am seriously considering leaving him. I asked him one time to stop playing his music so loud, but he told me that he really loves his music, and that he knows it’s bad, but he has to do it. As I feel that taste is a very important quality in a man, should I ditch him, or just live with his bad taste? Disgusted Dan

Unfortunately, It is more important for him to « express himself » than R E S P E C T your feelings. It would be better that your boyfriend lives alone with a karaoke machine. Alternatively, you can install a soundproof booth in the house. I hope that he pays for that. D.G.

y husband and I have been having trouble re-kindling romance in the past couple of years. He keeps on suggesting BDSM, but I really don’t find it interesting. Should I give it a try, or should I tell him that it’s not my thing? I have been avoiding the question. A. Anderson

Oh, picante. It’s hard to say… there are 3 options: 1. say « No. » 2. write and sign a BDSM contract with your husband! Like Anastasia in 50 shades of grey but don’t cry after like she did. A contract is a contract. 3. Maybe you can try it one night with him, and when you feel that you’ve had enough, just tell him: « STOP ». if he forces you to continue, call the police! D.G.

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y boyfriend is obsessed with playing video games, and I can’t take it anymore. The sex is great, and he’s fun to be around, but the video games are really cramping my style… Every time I tell him to put down the controls, he tells me that everyone is allowed to have their guilty pleasure - should he be allowed, and should I tolerate it? Brandon G.

Maybe he finds your habits are cramping his style, too. You can try to find compromises - you both could agree for specific time-planning for his video game playing to have more co-operative couple-time; However, you can’t insist that your boyfriend gives up playing his video games. it’s not your life, and nor is it your job. if you feel really bothered with his habit, go find another man. D.G.

recently purchased a statue for my boyfriend that I thought he would really appreciate - I am actually not sure if he does, and he won’t really express himself about it - he has put the statue in a very inconspicuous place in the house, and I was thinking that maybe I should just return it and let him get something else by his own choice - would that be ok, or a bit too forward? David

Put the statue in a very visible place, and than you’ll see. if he is disturbed by the statue, then yes - go ask him if he doesn’t mind to change the statue, and if he would like to come with you to the store to pick. You are not him, and he is not you. It is totally normal that we are wrong to choose the gift, so don’t take it so seriously. It will become one of the funny memories in your book of couple’s stories. D.G.

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