#Album Architectures

[lvdbbooks]

2023年2月24日

【新入荷・新本】

François-Xavier Gbré & Baptiste Manet & Martial Manet Album Architectures, Abidjan, Caryatide, 2022

English / French. 24 x 32 cm. Softcover. 128 pages.

価��：5,500円（税込）

/

コートジボワールの旧首都アビジャン（Abidjan）に残る、「トロピカル・モダニズ���」とも形容される主に1950〜70年代に建てられた近代建築にフォーカスした写真集。常に変化し続ける都市において、必ずしも特定されず、しばしば不可視化される、豊かで特異な建築的景観の価値化を通して、現代遺産の概念を考察します。

An iconographic work on the modern architecture of Abidjan which aims to offer a photographic survey of thirty buildings representative of the chosen moment of architecture that followed independence.

This is not an architecture book but a photography book on an architecture that expresses itself through diversity. It is a book that intends to offer a photographic view of buildings in Abidjan that bear the imprint of a certain «tropical modernism».

More precisely, Album Architectures, Abidjan is the testimony of an encounter between two individuals who live and share an aesthetic and emotional attachment to the lagoon city. Issa Diabaté, architect, contemporary actor of the architectural future of this city that never stops reinventing itself. François-Xavier Gbré, a photographer who has made architecture his preferred medium for apprehending the muted history of places by envisaging architectures as the sedimentary traces of the social and political changes of a country, the Ivory Coast.

This book, and the Album Architectures collection more broadly, aims to initiate a reflection on the definition of the notion of contemporary heritage through the valorisation of rich and singular architectural landscapes, not always identified, often invisibilised, of cities in perpetual urban change.

Born in 1978 in Lille (France), François-Xavier Gbré is a Franco-Ivorian photographer who lives and works between the Marais Poitevin in France and Abidjan.The photographic work of this mixed-race art-ist of Ivorian origin who grew up in the north of France apprehends architecture, landscape and urbanity in the form of a documentary testimony that evokes the architectural photography of Lewis Baltz, Stephen Shore and Guy Tillim. From Mali to Israel, from Lille to Rabat, François- Xavier Gbré photographs abandoned architectures bearing the traces of their country's social and political history. His photographs take a dis-tanced look at the buildings and the symbolic charge that history and historicity give them. They are inter-ested in the past, in the muted history of places, reveal the invisibilities of everyday life and petrify fragments of a world in perpetual mutation. In a soft radicality, he testifies of the in-between, of these moments of tipping revealed with force by the architecture.

François-Xavier Gbré's work can be found in the collections of the Centre Pompidou (Paris, France), the Tate Modern (London, UK), the Smithsonian Institution (Washington, USA), the Queensland Gallery of Modern Art (Brisbane, Australia), Philadelphia Museum of Art (Philadelphia), Chazen Museum of Art—University of Wisconsin (Madison USA), Walther Collection (Ulm, Germany), Rencontres d'Arles (Arles, France), Fonds National d'Art Contemporain (Paris, France) and Musée des Confluences (Lyon, France). In 2020, François-Xavier Gbré is the win-ner of the Louis Roederer Prize of the Rencontres Internationales de la Photographie d'Arles.

Baptiste Manet is an architecte specialised in contemporary heritage. He is the co-founder and director, with Yann Legouis, of the Sapiens Architectes office. He is also the co-founder of the association Éditions Cosa Mentale and a teacher at the École nationale d'architecture de Paris-Belleville (Paris). In 2022, Baptiste Manet participated in the experimental residential programme for the research and study of artistic practice and thought, organised by the RAW Academy in Dakar and the Institute of Contemporary Art at the University of Pennsylvania (Philadelphia).

Martial Manet has a PhD in Law and graduated in philosophy from the École Normale Supérieure in Paris. He has been Visiting Scholar at the Institute for African Studies at Columbia University (New-York). He teaches at the University of Paris I Panthéon- Sorbonne (Paris)

[phonographica]

Kowloon - Coasting (2024)

[daily-ethoslab]

[608] Heres a scavenger hunt! Try to find the album that inspired the colors of this etho! Hint: the name of the author is on the shirt :^P

[spirituellemuse]

Barbados 🇧🇧 2024 Feb

[goatsandgangsters]

yes I pick restaurants based on the decor

[garadinervi]

Trio Xenakis, Alliages, Collection Trio Xenakis, LBM070, b•records, 2024

Cover Art: Iannis Xenakis, Diatope (Polytope de Beaubourg), (detail), 1978 [Les Amis de Xenakis. © Famille Xenakis]

[steph-photographie]

Photos originales par Steph-Photo

Comme je suis en train de refaire mon site, je retrouve avec plaisir cet album réalisé en août 2021 à Giverny. https://www.steph-photo.fr/giverny-et-monet Suivez le lien ci-dessus pour trouver la galerie complète.

[stillforests]

[thedonofgray]

P O T D

Have a GREAT weekend everyone!

[flamingplay]

For those who wondered what was up with the jackets in this photoshoot.

According to @kyuri0465 on Twitter these jackets are typical Japanese industrial ones.

@Princess0fJapan kindly translated everything for me and explained the following:

- this type of "embroidery is only used for blue collar jobs and food industry for safety."

- Mike's jacket says "Architecture department (建築科) and the 53rd graduating class (53期)

then the student’s family name Ōkubo (大久保)."

- Jonathan's jacket looks like it's "from a ready-made concrete company,

生 means fresh or raw and コン is short for コンクリート which is concrete.

（株）means limited company.

And lastly a family name which reads Kazama (風間)."

- Jeremy's jacket says exactly the same as Jonathan's

- Mike's from the black and white photo "on the right says Takahashi which is just a family name without a company’s name."

Whether this will have any meaning or not only the album release will show.

[itspileofgoodthings]

I JUST LISTENED TO HITS DIFFERENT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A WHILE—-

[phonographica]

Lake Heartbeat - Pipedream (2009)

[chanelandbirkins]

Inside the Barbie Dreamhouse, a Fuchsia Fantasy Inspired by Palm Springs

This movie is gonna be huge!

Source

[raelyn-dreams]

LISTEN PLEASE I BEG OF YOU-

The new songs are so good I am!!! So excited!!! Shukufuku no Library, Amor Vincit Omnia, and Yumemiru Architecture all sound fantastic! I can't wait to hear the full versions :)

[dancing-to-architecture]

I'M BACK? I'M BACK!

40 - Jimi Hendrix - Are You Experienced?

So happy to have an album that isn't going to be torture to get through. Almost every track on this album is on *at least* one playlist of mine.

Purple Haze-

An absolute monster opening riff leading into one of the better songs of all time.

So, i know i have Unusual Opinions regarding music and musicians, and one of my stronger ones that I have is that Jimi Hendrix was very likely bi.

"Hold on now!" come the cries of the boomers. "prove it! Prove that the always flamboyant, immaculate, WAY ahead of his time, extremely fashion-forward and highly passionate rock star who tragically died young might be bi!".

To which i say: "did you even hear a word of what you just said?" He straight-up says "excuse me while i kiss this guy" and the entire English-speaking world collectively went "no, no, that's not what he said, he said... Kiss... umm... the sky! Yeah, that totally makes sense!".

Except i used to have a live recording of this song where he very clearly said "while i kiss. that. guy." Keeping in mind that this was before Freddie Mercury or David Bowie could sit down for an interview and say something like "I'm openly bisexual, i fancy both men and women, to roughly the same degree." and the interviewer would then immediately say some dumb shit like :"yes, but why are you gay?"

In short: Jimi was bi, most music magazine interviewers are crap, they have been crap for a long time, bisexual erasure happens TODAY, so of course it would have happened 50 years ago, deal with it.

Manic Depression-

I absolutely love this song. Also, and more distressingly, I also absolutely relate to this song.

The solo is insane, the riff work is phenomenal, and the bass and drums are perfectly in the pocket. (Also, for what seems like a fairly simple drum beat, it's MUCH harder to keep that constantly-shifting time signature in your head than one would think.)

Hey Joe-

Is this the best song about "murdering your cheating spouse and then fleeing the country" ever written? I think so.

I mean, I'd put the Dixie Chicks' "Goodbye, Earl" up there, but I don't think she left her hometown after the murder.

At any rate, a psychotic psychedelic R&B classic.

Love or Confusion-

An anthem for all the autistic folks out there like myself who genuinely can't tell if a person is actively flirting with them or just being polite.

May This Be Love-

I will always be in favor of daydreaming like a lazy-minded fool.

Much more mellow than the earlier songs on the album have been, but Jimi still works in some outstanding guitar noodling.

I would bet money this song was an influence on Incubus's "Aqueous Transmission".

I Don't Live Today-

The biggest goddamn mood on the album, and how I feel almost every time I'm made aware of The News.

The Wind Cries Mary-

Another absolute classic song. Sad but beautiful.

Kurt Vonnegut's lament: "So it goes..." in song form.

When I was young, (for some reason) I thought he was referencing the Virgin Mary. Now, I think she might have just been more of "the one who got away".

Fire-

People of a certain generation and a specific level of culture will likely associate this song with Tia Carrera.

Either way, this song melts faces. The drummer is a goddamn maniac on this one.

Third Stone From The Sun-

I've never listened to this album on acid, but this song seems perfect for that exact mindset with the trippy, heavily-distorted vocals.

It kicks ass, though, don't get me wrong.

Foxey Lady-

People of a certain generation and a specific level of culture will likely associate this song with Dana Carvey wearing a flannel shirt tied around his waist.

(Look, if you haven't seen Wayne's World, you owe it to yourself to do so.)

Are You Experienced?-

The last line of this one (not necessarily stoned but beautiful) always made me figure that "being experienced" is a shibboleth for anything from "you smoke trees?" to "DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE MACHINE ELVES?!"

and damn do I love the backwards drumming.

Stone Free-

Okay, Jimi, I'm pretty sure they DID realize they "were the ones who's square". That's why they would stare at your bizarre marching band leader outfits. (I'm absolutely Not knocking his bizarre marching band leader outfits, I honestly wish I had the panache to pull that kinda shit off.)

51st Anniversary-

Man, between Stone Free and this one right after, I'm guessing Jimi didn't think much of marriage, huh?

Idk, as a happily married man, this one just doesn't click with me.

Highway Chile-

This very easily could have been me after the army, if I had had a car that actually worked.

Can You See Me-

This one rings a bit hollow after all the earlier "yeah, baby, I'm out of here, see ya never, no strings on me" songs, just saying.

It rocks, nonetheless. Also maybe the only time "aww, shucks" had been uttered in a song that still goes this hard.

Remember-

See directly above, except the aww shucks part.

Red House-

And this one, right at the end, proves the hollowness of the last two broken hearted songs in my eyes.

"Girl left while I was gone? Welp. Fuck it, her sister was cute."

A monster of a blues track, regardless. One of my favorites, and that solo is INSANE.

Favorite Track: This is a tough one. A close race, but it's Purple Haze by a nose.

Least Favorite Track: Remember. It's barely about the girl in question! It's about the bird that won't sing and the dumped dude who won't eat because he has the sads.

Sorry about the long time since last time, full disclosure I got thoroughly addicted to a podcast called Kill James Bond, wherein three trans people discuss (and frequently skewer) the poster boy for toxic masculinity. It's fantastic.

[ithinkineedamoment]

2. Paris, France

1 of 1,000

I feel like it’s way too early in this process to even fully begin to unpack this one, but here we go. 

Realistically, it makes sense. Barely a month ago, Sergio and I got off a plane from attending the 2024 Summer Olympics in France. It was a once in a lifetime event that I had been planning and replanning tediously since January 2023. There were tickets to be won, booked out hotels, over priced planes, and a whole lot of unknowns. 

Sergio had never been to Paris or France. I, on the other hand, grew up no less than 20 minutes from the French border, in Germany, for my teenage years. Birthdays, long weekends, grocery shopping, flea marketing - it’d all happen in France. So in planning this Tour de France, it was less about me, and more about what I thought was worth seeing in France for Mr. Man’s first time. I stressed over every detail - was it worth going out of our way to Mont Saint Michel? Will he like staying in this neighborhood in Marseille or should I pick somewhere closer to the water? I begged and pleaded for his engagement for over a year and piecemealed together a plan. So much needed to be figured out, but not for a single minute did I worry about our weeklong stay in Paris. 

It was September 25th, 2010 and our high speed train from Kaiserslautern had just arrived in Gare Montparnasse. My family had barely been in Europe for two months and there we were, dressed in our American best pretending we were citizens of the world. The photos of this trip are hilarious given that these were before years of military propaganda and attempts at assimilation (our military TV, AFN or Armed Forces Network, showed several commercials threatening terrorist attacks if you left your military base looking or acting like an American). 

Regardless, we were there for one day to celebrate Mom’s birthday. It had not been an easy move to Europe. Over the past few months, Dad returned home from a year long deployment and he and I quickly fell into a quasi-estranged relationship. Weeks later, we found ourselves in Germany living in a concrete box on a military base, ostensibly, in the middle of nowhere. Mom would lash out, leaving scuffs and indents in the walls of the staircase that would never be fixed. The four of us were each other’s only support system, changed by the reintroduction of Dad to the mix after his yearlong absence. Who we were to each other and how we operated as a family unit was actively being rewritten in a militaristic world we had always been a part of but never formalized. It’s been 14 years, but I don’t remember we were ever happy in those early months. So stepping off that train felt energizing. Here we were in Paris - Paris! We were finally fulfilling the promise we were told of travel and seeing the wonders of Europe. It felt like the pain of getting to this point was finally paying off. 

Truth be told, I barely remember anything from this specific trip to Paris. Scenes of this trip playback like the photographic screensaver that used to run on the family computer. But there would be more trips. A Memorial Day foray through the Louvre and the Gardens of Versailles with family friends, a spring break stay at EuroDisney, the three of us zipping through the Metro to catch sights of Mom running her first and only half marathon, a couple days here, an evening or two there - all these visits from our time in Europe exist in my mind as a living map of the city. “Remember when we were here last?” we would ask each other, only to respond “of course! New years 2011,” while standing under the Eiffel Tower. Each trip was significant enough to be noteworthy, but when played back over and over again, they lose their place in time.

This timelessness, I feel, is the point. When you’re sneaking down the Cour du Commerce Saint-Andre, just off the Boulevard Saint-Germain on the Left Bank, it makes sense. The stories you hear of winding streets flush with candlelight, the chattering of wine glasses and the clinking of vape pens against the metal tables, and somewhere, a street performer playing an Edith Piaf song because beauty is innate in every Parisien (and not because they’re catering to a tourist economy) - all of this combines to reaffirm your preconceived notions. Some find it romantic, others, a caricature to be avoided at all costs. And yet, we visit - experiencing a city designed to be beautiful by people who inspired its destruction.  For every cathedral vault, there is a riot and barricade, for every newly built city wall, there was a force itching to invade. 

In the fall of 2019, in the “blissful” months of post-college “freedom” that usually consisted of downing a bottle of wine by myself in bed watching old seasons of “The Amazing Race”, I felt the need to leave. I had some extra cash, not because my job paid well, but because I was paying next to nothing to live in the converted living room of a shared apartment with two former classmates. It was lonely - feeling as if you were entering adulthood having spent the past four years destroying yourself for a chance at success. So I planned a trip that I knew would hopefully spark some joy into my life. I booked my first solo trip to Paris. 

Except it wasn’t solo. Within a few weeks of booking, I reconnected with Rick for the first time in months. I don’t remember who reached out first but after my fallout with Sergio, it felt harmless enough. While sipping a margarita at some restaurant in Midtown New York, long since closed, we caught up. He pummeled me with questions about what I was doing, where I was living, who I was fucking - convincing himself that the two classmates I was sharing an apartment with were my two boyfriends. I sipped on my drink and wondered what I was even doing there. It was just good to see him. 

Eventually, we parted ways, tearfully. Texts became more frequent and the fear of repercussions dwindled and I mentioned that I was going to France - had booked a whole trip to go to Paris and see other places in the country I had never been to as a treat for myself. I never asked him to or made any indication it was something I wanted, but the next thing I knew, I was planning a trip for two. It’s funny how organizing a trip with someone who has money makes the entire planning process significantly easier. I didn’t complain, but knew that it was most likely a disaster in the long run. 

A few days before the trip, Rick visited the doctor with a horrendous cough. He was told it was the flu and it’d pass, but it certainly wasn’t contagious anymore (Covid was knocking at the door). He could walk only steps at a time before needing a break and was constantly breaking out in a cold sweat. He was adamant that he’d still go on the trip. So there we went. 

The trip was emotionally brutal for the most part. Traveling to Paris with him felt like trying to recover from alcoholism in a winery. Insane on my part. But he was sick! He couldn’t do anything. I’d leave the hotel and roam for hours just to return back to sweaty and upset Rick. I didn’t blame him. He could barely talk yet wanted to know everything, he couldn’t walk, but wanted to experience the city. I felt bound by some duty to give up the things that I wanted to do to support a man who I had loved through the city of it. Suddenly, the sights and sounds of the city I had treasured as the escape from my life through my youth felt like a prison. I was there but I shouldn’t be, I wanted to grow but I couldn’t. I was reminded of all the ways I would minimize my existence growing up in my parents house and performed them with wine stained lips - filling the silence while refusing to acknowledge my part in it. I missed him and I missed his company. I still do now, at times. However, that shouldn’t have been the reason I let him come on this trip. A part of the depression and mess I had been recovering from in New York was now sitting across from me at the dinner table in a foreign country I wasn’t supposed to be in. He wanted so desperately for me to love him again, and I knew a part of me did, but to admit that would have destroyed what was left of me. 

So on the day before we were to leave Paris for our next city, I set off on the day’s journey. I remember the streets being quiet as I crossed the Île de la Cité. In December, the cold hangs over the city like a layer of frost no amount of warmth could penetrate. The buildings, the sky, everything seems a bit paler than it should be. I roamed and I roamed, climbing to Montmartre and realizing I had never been there. Ascending the winding streets and into Sacre Coeur, my mind flicked through the rolodex of bad ideas that could save me from my current situation. After cresting the hill, I found myself going west and eventually to Montmartre Cemetery. The sun was peeking through the grates of the Pont de Caulaincourt while the trees’ remaining leaves swirled down to their crunchy grave. It was cold, and it was quiet. 

I took to the uneven cobblestones that lined the cluttered pathways of the cemetery. The tombs and mausoleums crowded each other like the misshapen buildings of a neglected city. I was alone in this necropolis, the city of the dead.

At a certain point, surrounded by the silence, I found a bench under a Maple tree.  I don’t remember how long I sat there, sipping in the silence as one might a Vin Chaud, letting it numb me. Hector Berlioz, Edgar Degas, thousands of others all lay in their final resting place around me at peace and I was living. Why couldn’t I be at peace? Why did I have to be living? Living with the regret of not being strong enough to save myself, with the want of falling asleep there in the cold and praying I’d awaken to a different life. I had loved so hard and loved so deeply, but could never seem to love correctly. I gave everything I had to everyone else, and with everyone gone - I had nothing left. 

Almost in response to my isolation, a small black cat emerged quietly from the untrimmed brush that twisted between the two tombs in front of me. The only other sign of life in the cemetery curled their way to the top of the tomb and pawed gently at the leaves, clearing a place to rest. I don’t remember whose tomb it was but time seemed to collapse. It didn’t matter whether the interred died 100 years ago or 500 years ago. Side by side, they were all equal in death. And we, the cat and I, were there now.

In the epilogue of Alistair Horne’s Seven Ages of Paris, which I only read this past year, he muses on the significance of the French words for love and death being so similar. Paris, to me, had always been a city of history, of art, of good food, and of love. It was an escape - a vision of a better world, a better life. It was never anything real. Love, as I knew it growing up, was using and being used - it wasn’t care. Paris was a city I used. Now death - death I could understand. Growing up in the military, it surrounded me. I begged for death several times before I should have. Death is inevitable and everyone will know it. All around Paris are markers of this knowledge - these memento mori. Cemeteries, catacombs, monuments, statues - all in remembrance of those who have come before us and had made this city beautiful. It is on the mounds of the dead that the sprouts of new love and life are able to be shared. It is in death that a tomb can become a bed to a sleepy cat. 

I can’t say I bounded from the cemetery, energized by the notion of life. I did not run back to Rick and take him in my arms and promise myself to him forever. I knew that France would be the last time I would ever see him and as of today I’ve yet to be proven wrong. For the rest of the trip, I treated the death of our connection with patience and care, lulling it to sleep as you would a child. I knew that I could not give more of myself to him and I had to stop pretending that I could. What mattered more now was remembering that I will, in fact, die having lived a life for myself. I knew what was left of me was worth saving. I might have felt there was nothing left for me to give, but I could always create more. I couldn’t die without ensuring I left even the smallest bit of beauty behind. 

Now, almost 5 years later, I’m freshly returned from another stint in France, this time with Sergio. We still have never discussed what happened between Rick and I or what happened in France, and I don’t know if we ever will. As I stated at the beginning, we were there for the Olympics and I cannot overemphasize how incredible it was. Yes, most of the city was empty save for the hordes of tourists, but who am I to complain? We were tourists too. It was exciting to return to a city I felt I had history with and not for the city’s sake. Seeing Sergio witness the city with fresh eyes and fresh criticism brought the city to life. In walking hand in hand down the banks of the Seine, it didn’t matter that we were passing the Musée d’Orsay. It mattered that we were there together. We had multiple, lengthy conversations about the struggles of our relationships and the ways we don’t show up for each other while also unpacking complicated feelings of family and home. It was hard, tiring, emotional - but the person I was 5 years ago could never have done so. My parents, who were also attending the games, made guest appearances a few times during our trip. It’s worth noting that shortly after that cemetery visit in 2019, my parents and I fell out of touch - no longer on speaking terms for years. Yet, here we were, back in the city that started it all in 2010, each willing to give Paris and each other another chance. 

On our final night in Paris, as the Olympics drew to a close, Sergio and I grabbed a bottle of wine and made our way to the Jardin du Carrousel. The Olympic cauldron, as made famous by the fact it wasn’t a fire, was a giant hot air balloon whose basket was a ring of lights and smoke that would lift into the air at sunset and shine over the city and all the various arenas. I posited that it was most likely because the first manned hot air balloon ride that brought man to the skies back in the 1800s had taken place in Paris. Either way, we stayed in the garden commenting on the past 16 days of travel and what it meant to each other. For him, an opportunity to discover and appreciate a history he had always known but had strong prejudice against due to France’s imperialism (fair, lol). And for me, an appreciation of feeling present in a place with a history that had not always been easy. Home is a concept that I struggle with, but sitting there with him, it felt like home. 

The sun set and the crowd around us leapt to their feet as the giant balloon in front of us unceremoniously slid into the sky. The empty wine bottle laid at our feet as the two of us stayed seated. The city had never felt so magical and this love had never felt so beautiful.