#collection hiver

[dominiquerispal]

Etude d’un grand motif floral placé, inspiré d’un tissu chaîne et trame imprimé en all-over. La demande était d’interpréter cet imprimé répétitif en un grand motif de tricot jacquard beaucoup moins chargé, tout en conservant les petits pointillés dans certaines zones de dessin.

Technique : jacquard piqué 4 couleurs en jauge 12.

Fil de fond Marine DHARA Nm 2/52 (44% laine, 44% acrylique, 12% polyester stretch) & fil de motif MATISSE Nm 1/22 (50% acrylique, 20% viscose, 20% coton, 10% laine) en coloris Rouge, Ambre & Blush.

Etude par SOWILO à la demande de la styliste Caroline FAYON pour la marque LE PETIT BAIGNEUR, saison Automne-hiver 2022-2023.

https://fr.linkedin.com/in/caroline-fayon-maille

[chicinsilk]

A rare photo of Brigitte Bardot in a Dior dress before attending a ball, 1957. Christian Dior Haute Couture Collection Fall/Winter 1956-57. Brigitte Bardot wears the “Concerto” evening dress. "Aimant" Line.

Une photo rare de Brigitte Bardot dans une robe Dior avant d'assister à un bal, 1957.

Christian Dior Collection Haute Couture Automne/Hiver 1956-57. Brigitte Bardot porte la robe du soir "Concerto". Ligne "Aimant"

[fashionbooksmilano]

"back in black" marcel marongiu hiver-90

Photographies Ewa-Marie Wernersson, Avanti, Stockholm

Catalogue Björn Kusoffsky

Imprimeur Rolfs, Typographie Face, Stockholm 1990, 24 pages, 22x31cm

euro 80,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

Marcel Marongiu est un styliste né à Paris d'une mère suédoise et d'un père sarde. Marcel Marongiu est diplôme d’économie mais se spécialise très vite dans la couture en suivant des études à Stockholm. En 1989, alors de retour à Paris, il crée sa propre marque. Marcel Marongiu se fait alors remarquer par son travail de lignes aériennes et de tons monochromes. Marcel Marongiu, chouchou de la mode dès sa première collection en 1989, devient vite un incontournable des années 90 pour tous les magazines. Il est depuis 2007 le directeur artistique de la maison de couture Guy Laroche.

 Marcel Marongiu fetishized black with jet leather caps — Marongiu’s had the distinct air of hard-line Gestapo hats — paired with inky trenches for a look that evoked sexy Charlotte Rampling in The Night Porter.

07/12/23

[visualratatosk]

Collective memories, III, 12

Follow me, — says Visual Ratatosk

[alessandro55]

Vogue Haute Couture Les Collections d'Hiver 1964-1965

Vogue, Paris 1964, 40 pages + 4 tables "La laine dans la Haute Couture Paris, 24,5x32,5cm

euro 30,00

email if you want to buy : booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

[arts-bloody-rose]

Blood of A Rose - Part 6 (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - As chaos begins to stir, (Y/n) starts to notice Art sharing an odd connection with her.

Notes - Still following the events of Terrifier 3 with minor insight of (Y/n)’s background/childhood 👀

Word Count - 3,803

Warning(s) - Canon-typical violence/gore, minor trauma/flashbacks

Song Inspiration -

The Pretty Wild - Sleepwalker

ZAND - I Spit On Your Grave

Cinema Strange - En Hiver

Art motioned for the Santa to undress, gun still threateningly pointed at him. 

(Y/n) swallowed another shot, having grabbed another bottle from behind the bar. Her head began to spin, though not drastically as she teetered a thin line between buzzed and drunk. 

She turned and made her way over to the two men, chuckling to herself as the older of the two began to strip. 

“Make it sexy for us, Santa. Give us a show.” She pressed back against Art, swaying her hips tauntingly to encourage the phony. Art’s face contorted into pleasant surprise, tilting his head around to watch (Y/n)’s playfully seductive movements and placing his free hand on her hip. 

He looked back up when her motions stopped, the two of them breaking out into laughter as the man in front of them tried his best to do what she asked. She held onto the clown for support, wheezing and hunched over, holding onto her stomach while Art slapped at her back in his own fit. 

They wiped away their tears, eyes drifting to the red suit and boots that now sat in a pile on the floor. (Y/n) cleared her throat and looked over at Art. “I needed that.” She sighed and he nodded in agreement. 

Art then pointed to a chair sat at one of the few small tables, then pointed to a platform where the Christmas tree and snowman sat. (Y/n) winked, moving to grab the chair. She heard the now stripped Santa begin to shout desperately as she dragged the piece of furniture over, lifting it and setting it down center-stage. 

Seconds later, the man was aggressively pushed into it, nearly tumbling backwards. Art passed the gun to (Y/n), moving to his bag while the latter lazily pointed it in the man’s direction with a bored expression. 

“Y’know, I really expected more of a fight out of you. A little disappointed.” (Y/n) voiced as Art returned with a few lines of rope, beginning to tie down the man’s limbs to the chair. 

The clown looked back at her as he did, nodding in agreement with a pout. 

“That’s okay though, we’ll make up for it, won’t we?” Art looked up at their poor victim with a sickening smile, unnerving him to the bone. 

He then stepped back, revealing his work with a flair to the nearly drunk woman who applauded him. He motioned for her to hand over the gun back to him and she obeyed, stepping away to collect the discarded Santa outfit and setting the articles of clothing on a nearby pool table. 

As Art pulled off his second shoe, he suddenly smacked it across Santa’s face, laughing to himself when he grunted and walked over to where (Y/n) stood. He stopped in front of her, waddling a turn to face his back towards her.

She reached up and unzipped his suit, watching as he slid it off of his slim figure and tossing it into her arms to which she grumbled at him before folding it and setting it on the table. She did the same with the rest of his accessories, mindful and delicate with them as he began to dress himself in the new red attire. She adjusted and buckled his belt, fiddling with the clothing until they deemed it satisfactory. 

“Something’s missing.” (Y/n) mumbled as she scanned over his figure. Art looked around, spotting the mask that still hung on the restroom door and grinned down at her. He made his way over with a pep in his step, snatching it off of the hook and bringing it back to the table. 

He pulled off the wig from it, taking off the Santa hat on his head and replacing it with the artificial hair. 

“Yes!” (Y/n) gasped, grabbing the hat again and placing it on the clown. She stepped back, eyeing him up and down as her stomach began to flutter. “Clowny Claus, indeed.” She hummed and bit her lip. 

Art wagged a finger at her, telling her not to get ahead of herself and jabbed a thumb at the man behind him, struggling against his restraints. 

“Fine.” (Y/n) pouted and crossed her arms. Art winked at her before fluffing his hair delicately, slowly turning around to reveal himself to the bearded man. 

“Oh - y - you look good, Clowny…” The man choked out. “You look good.” Art blew him a kiss at the compliment and waved him off. “Oh yeah, it’s never looked better…” 

The clown bounced over to his bag placed on the pool table, (Y/n) sitting on top of it and watching as he rummaged through. 

“Look, I’ll go now, then. You know, you’re - you’re Santa Claus, right? So I can go.” The man continued. Art looked up at (Y/n) and stuck out his tongue with a roll of his eyes, making her giggle and kick her feet. He looked back at the man with a sarcastic grin, going back to rummaging. The man began to sob, crying for help as (Y/n) simply watched him casually. 

Her eyes then dragged down to the bag, catching the tank as Art slowly pulled it out. He cradled it in his arms, turning around to face the man once more with a devilish grin. 

“Oh - Clowny!” He cried out as Art stepped closer to him to stand at his side. 

He flipped up the nozzle to his shoulder, waving his hand across the tank as a presentation, panic filling the man’s eyes. 

“What the hell is that?” His voice shook. 

Art just held his smile and took the nozzle in hand, flipping it back down and hooking a strap attached to it over his shoulder. 

“Oh god, oh god… Clowny… Clowny, look at me.” He panted. Art’s smile dropped, slowly blinking with downturned lips as he listened to the man with boredom. “Clowny, I’m not really Santa Claus.” He confessed and (Y/n) slid off of the table, moving closer and snapping a photo of his desperate expression. 

Art lifted the nozzle and dramatically pointed it at the man with a threatening smile. 

“No, no, wait! Listen to me -“ He rushed. “I have a name.” (Y/n) clicked her tongue and crossed her arms, both her and Art leaning onto one leg impatiently. “I have a real - no - I have a real name!” 

Art nodded sarcastically, mouthing a yeah and motioned to him as he looked at (Y/n) to say look at this guy. 

“My - my name is Charles Johnson -“ Art propped a leg up on the stage, aiming the nozzle as the man again. “- Clowny, and I have a wife, a wife! I have a wife and two kids!” 

“Aw, he’s a family man.” (Y/n) taunted sweetly and took a step forward, expression and voice hardening as Art grinned and chuckled. “A family man at a bar late at night with two women on his lap while the wife stays at home and takes care of everything.” She looked over at Art who gagged, then back at the man. “Right?”  

“No, no -“ Art jerked the nozzle to point down at his leg and watched as the man gargled on his own words in fear, shaking his head vigorously in denial. “No, it’s not like that! Clowny, listen to me! Clowny, I beg you! Listen, I have four gorgeous grandchildren! And their names - their names are Brian and Denise and -“ 

Art suddenly toggled the release, liquid nitrogen spewing at the man’s body as he screamed and shook at the rapidly freezing sensation while the clown wagged his head with laughter. 

As before, the supply was cut off and it came to a stop, the nozzle lifted up towards the ceiling. Art turned joyfully back towards the table to set down the tank, grabbing something from his bag. As he did so, (Y/n) glared into the man’s eyes. “I have no problem with a family man.” She commented. 

Art lifted a brick hammer, waving it teasingly for the man to see. He then lunged forward, ramming the hammer into one of his shins over and over as it crumbled to gory pieces just as it had with the rat. The man’s voice cracked as he screamed, thrashing around in the chair.

The clown came to a halt, pointing at the man and laughing. However, (Y/n) didn’t share the same joy, still holding the same darkened expression as anger quickly began to simmer and grow to a boil. “What I do have a problem with is someone who suddenly gives a shit about their family when their own ass is on the line.” 

“No, no, no, that’s not - that’s not -“ The man warily eyed Art as he stepped around to his side.  

“I think it’s only fair.” (Y/n) told the squirming victim flatly with little to no sympathy, hands folded in front of her. Art gave him a mischievous nod, the hammer beating against his hand next. “It’s not like things will be any different for them. Seems like you’re pretty absent, as it is.” She continued to talk through his torment. 

Art stepped back to the table to retrieve the tank once more, rocking it in his arms in a small dance as he made his way back over to them. 

With the nozzle aimed directly in his face, Art gave him a small wave while (Y/n)’s head tilted.

In a final scream, he was met with a face full of the substance, immediately frozen as it made contact. Art dragged it out longer than the last, prompting (Y/n) to look around the rest of the room curiously, taking in the smaller details she never noticed before. 

Once finished, Art set down the tank beside him with a wide grin, then it dropped as he placed his hands on his hips and examined the mess in front of them. With an idea, he held a finger up and pulled the hammer from his belt excitedly, readying it for a third time before smashing in the man’s face. 

He released whatever scream he could manage, but it was useless. 

When satisfied, Art gave it a thumbs up and he and (Y/n) shared a look, the latter shrugging. Art then reached out and peeled the man’s beard from his face, holding it up to his own and tilting side to side happily, mouthing a ho ho ho. 

“Now, you’re a real Santa.” The woman chuckled and he nodded, folding the skin in half when he caught sight of the snowman beside the chair. 

He pointed at (Y/n) with an idea, reaching out and plucking the carrot nose from the decoration before shoving it into the caved-in head in front of them. Somehow, the man still muffled a scream and (Y/n)’s eyebrows rose, impressed. 

With this in mind, she looked down at his other, undamaged shin, countenance unreadable with her arms crossed as they stood in silence. 

Art jumped in surprise when she snatched the hammer from his belt, watching in dramatized bewilderment as she beat in the man’s good leg, hearing him gargle out blood from above her as her own frustrations scratched at her throat. 

(Y/n) huffed, giving the carrot nose a good hammer-in before turning and tossing the hammer onto the table as Art watched her with genuine shock. 

She dragged her feet over to the women’s restroom, eyeing her reflection in the mirror as she turned on the faucet. She cupped her hands, filling them with cold water before splashing her face and cleaning the blood off of herself as she sighed into the sink. (Y/n) looked up at herself, glaring as water dripped off of her chin and nose. 

She turned and grabbed a few paper towels, patting her face dry before swinging the door open and walking out. Art had just finished stuffing his own suit into the bag with a focused expression, straightening up when he saw her and waved with a bright smile, beard now adorning his face. 

(Y/n) offered a half-assed smile in return and he frowned, watching as she prepared her camera to start taking photos of the mutilated body. 

Snap.

Two voices yelled at each other in the middle of the kitchen, hands flailing towards the little girl sitting innocently on a chair at the table. 

She took a deep breath, attempting to shake off her thoughts.

Snap.

“Where’s Dad?” A small voice asked as she was carried to her bedroom. 

“Dad’s working late. He won’t be home for a while, sweetheart.” Her mother tried to soothe.

Her heart picked up its pace, hands beginning to tremble as she looked at the man through her lens. 

Snap.

The little girl peeked out from her bedroom door as she watched her mother crying at the dinner table. 

She looked at the sliding glass door behind her, spotting the reflection of a monochromatic clown.

(Y/n) gasped and whipped around to face Art, breath shaky as he stared at her with his signature grin, though it didn’t meet his eyes. 

“Were you just -?” She whispered, dumbfounded. He stepped forward, grasping her jaw delicately and raising his eyebrows at her. 

She couldn’t move, staring as he held her gaze with great intensity and her head began to tickle. Her thoughts slowed, coaxing her into a more calm state of mind, focusing on the clown in front of her. Sobering up, she felt disappointed when Art pulled away and blew her a kiss, following him with keen eyes as he moved to pick up his bag. 

He stretched out his free arm towards her, opening and closing his hand in a silent ask as if nothing happened. (Y/n) stayed where she was for a moment, dumbfounded and eyeing him, then sighed and walked over to him, slipping her hand into his much larger one and following him out of the bar. 

“How did you do that?” (Y/n) questioned quietly as they walked. 

Art shrugged in reply, tossing her a mischievous grin before looking forward once more. 

“Okay, well how long have you been doing that?”  She looked up at him, vulnerable. 

He looked down at her, eyes darkening in a silent warning.

(Y/n) felt a chill run down her spine and she looked down with a melancholic expression. She felt Art squeeze her hand a few times, pulling her closer. She sighed and nuzzled into the warm fabric of his new suit, the cold snowfall beginning to seep into her clothes. He moved to hook their arms, bringing her into him as they turned into a middle-class neighborhood, Christmas lights and decorations adorning a few houses they passed.  

They came upon one of the more extravagant houses, gutters lit the same as others with their colorful lights, but also the trimmed trees on the lot as well as the walkways and edges of the lawn. 

The two of them looked at each other and Art bore an excited grin, raising his eyebrows before nodding towards the house. (Y/n) simply nodded, eager to get inside of the warm abode as she began to shiver. Art placed his hand on her back, urging the two of them to head to the front door. 

As the clown went to test the knob, the door pushed open slightly and he paused, tucking in his chin with a jerk with lips downturned in surprise. He looked over at (Y/n) and shrugged, quietly pushing the door open for both of them to step through and locked the door shut. 

Their footsteps sounded thunderous in the silence, wandering further into the cozy home with an equally decorated interior. Art gently sat down his oversized bag by their Christmas tree, digging through and pulling out a spare one that was crumpled up and handing it to (Y/n). He pointed to the wrapped presents around the base of the tree, then to the bag and she nodded. 

Carefully, she peeled open the bag and began picking out the ones that weren’t particularly large, trying to fit as many as possible. 

“Go away!” They faintly heard a boy whine from upstairs, pausing their movements and glancing at each other. 

Art’s neutral set face turned mischievous, (Y/n) spotting a dull glimmer out of the corner of her eyes. He slowly rose to his full height, tediously pulling out a long-handled ax from his bag. He then winked at her and turned towards the staircase by the front door, taking his time as he made his way upstairs. 

She casually went back to filling her own bag as his steps faded. “Juliet, I told you to stay out of my -“ The boy’s voice was abruptly cut off, the following sounds of wet squelching simply background noise as she loosely knotted her bag closed and sat on the couch. The house grew silent once more, then there were the creaking footsteps of Art upstairs. 

(Y/n) stilled, eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a moment. 

Shortly after, the sounds of more squelching returned and she nodded, her shoulders relaxing. She swung her legs up onto the couch to lay across it, throwing an arm over her eyes. 

The noise that would typically disgust any normal human being was comforting in that moment. It reminded her that Art was still there with her as it became white noise, accompanied by the winter wind outside whistling against the windows as both nearly lulled her to sleep. 

Nearly. 

A woman screaming jolted her out of her relaxed state, sighing and crossing her arms in front of her as she stared up at the ceiling as she heard a door slam. 

“Timmy, Juliet, run!” The woman screamed, followed by the sound of wood being broken in. 

Multiple pairs of feet stomped around, then there was a pause. Then another scream. It seemed to grow louder and the same footsteps plundered down the stairs.  

“Somebody fucking help me!” The woman shrieked and (Y/n) watched lazily from the couch as she rammed herself into the door, struggling to unlock it as Art closed in on her. “Oh fuck, help me!”

Looking away when he raised his ax, she turned onto her side and folded her arm beneath her head. She closed her eyes once more when the woman’s screaming seemed to die down, Art having finally gotten to her. 

Not a minute later, she heard another scream and (Y/n) sat up, curling up on the couch in an upright position as she watched Art, but was careful not to look at the bloodied woman as he swung at her a second time. 

Hesitantly, (Y/n) inched her gaze towards her as she trudged into the living room, coughing up blood. The woman fell to her knees, finally noticing the stranger sitting comfortably on her couch as if it was her own home, watching the scene unfold with a bored expression. 

As the woman was distracted, Art crept up behind her, the former whimpering when she caught sight of an ax head readying itself over her shoulder. It quickly turned into screaming as Art swung at her arm. (Y/n) looked away once more, eyes closed as she rested her head against her arm that was propped up against the cushions.  

After a few minutes of him hacking and smashing, she felt him tap her shoulder and she lifted her head to look at him. He pointed at the bag she filled and gave a thumbs up in question. 

“Yeah, it’s done.” (Y/n) stretched before standing and eyeing his suit, giving in to temptation and wrapping her arms around him. 

Art pointed at a bloodied spot on his suit and sliced his hand at his throat while shaking his head. 

Her voice was muffled by the fabric, face buried in his chest. “I don’t care, we have five years of making up to do. I’ll just shower while we’re here.” 

She felt Art shrug and his fingertips tickled her back as he caressed it, ax still in his other hand. When she let go, he rubbed his hand over his stomach with a pout. 

“Well, let’s check the kitchen. I’m sure they have something.” 

The two of them wandered into the said room, the clown setting down his ax on the island countertop. His face showed excited surprise, rubbing his hands together and grinning when he spotted a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. He sat down on one of the barstools in front of it, kicking his feet up on the other and leaning back as he delicately took a cookie and broke it. 

(Y/n) watched as he dipped it in the milk, bringing it up to his mouth and biting off a large chunk of it. She giggled when he shimmied his shoulders, body shaking delightfully with a smile of glee. “That good, huh?” 

Art nodded at her with closed eyes, dipping the second bite in the milk again, (Y/n) walking over and kissing his cheek.

“I’m gonna go find the laundry room for your other suit.” He gave her a thumbs up and her hand brushed down his arm as she passed him back to the living room. She dug through his bag and pulled out his black and white ensemble, making her way upstairs and opening and closing a few different doors before reaching the master bedroom. 

Mindful of the blood and tissue, (Y/n) stepped over the mess and opened the closet door, wandering inside curiously. She eyed the different clothes, pondering between a few before she decided on a longer, soft cardigan and took it from the hanger to hang it over her shoulder.

Making her way back downstairs, she looked behind a few more doors before smiling to herself when she spotted a washer and dryer, cabinets hung above them. She opened the washer and looked through the cabinets, pulling out detergent pods and putting a couple of them in the small load. 

She stripped down, goosebumps rising on her skin as her now bare feet stepped on the cold tile. She quickly slipped on the cardigan, throwing the clothes in the washer and starting the cycle, filling the room with a low hum. 

She then suddenly heard a girl scream. “Huh?” She wondered out loud incredulously and wandered through the house back to the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway just as Art swung his ax at a little girl on the floor, raising a single brow in confusion. 

Art stopped and looked at her, face sharing the same confused expression as he pointed at her new outfit. 

(Y/n), in turn, pointed at the dismembered girl. 

Tag List: @hoe-for-daddywise @callsignwidow

[franckcossoul]

Balenciaga

Collection Haute Couture

Automne / Hiver 1961-62

Balenciaga A/H 1961-62 "141". Photo Tom Kublin.

[bobbole]

Thierry Mugler, collection La Chimère, haute couture automne-hiver 1997-1998

[dominiquerispal]

Etude de 2 grands motifs placés (Devant et Manche) “ Power Flower “ en jacquard double-face sur jauge 12. 

Fil de fond DHARA Nm 2/52 (44% laine, 44% acrylique, 12% polyester stretch) & fil de motif SCOTTY Nm 1/15 (58% laine, 42% acrylique).

Etude par SOWILO à la demande de la styliste Caroline FAYON pour la marque LE PETIT BAIGNEUR, saison Automne-hiver 2022-2023.

https://fr.linkedin.com/in/caroline-fayon-maille

[chicinsilk]

"Bon Voyage " 1

Jeanne Lanvin-Castillo Autumn/Winter 1955-56. Anne St. Marie wears "Bon Voyage" a suit and coat ensemble.

The car: A Mercedes-Benz 300 SL model 1955.

Jeanne Lanvin-Castillo Automne/Hiver 1955-56. Anne St. Marie porte "Bon Voyage " un ensemble tailleur et manteau.

La voiture : Une Mercedes-Benz 300 SL modèle 1955.

Photo Henry Clarke

[fashionbooksmilano]

Sous l’Empire des crinolines   Musée Galliera

Catherine Join-Diéterle,  Françoise Tétart-Vittu

Paris Musées, Paris 2008, 212 pages, Relié, 180 ill.couleurs, 17,5 x 24,5 cm, ISBN : 978-2-7596-0069-4

euro 80,00

email if you want to buy booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

Catalogue publié à l'occasion de l'exposition "Sous l'empire des crinolines" présentée au Palais Galliera du 26 novembre 2008 au 26 avril 2009, Editeur Paris Musées. Symbole du Second Empire, la crinoline apparaît dès 1830 avec l’utilisation de jupons en crin qui font gonfler les jupes. Ils seront remplacés en 1856 par la fameuse cage à fanons de baleine, puis substitués par une armature métallique. Le succès de cette dernière sera immédiat : en France, 5 millions sont confectionnés en 1860. Sa forme évolue également. D’abord ronde, elle est ensuite plate devant et se projette loin vers l’arrière. Puis, à partir de 1867, une «demi crinoline», plus étroite, s’impose. Souvent comparée aux coupoles en métal et en verre la crinoline témoigne de la passion de l’époque pour le volume. Cependant, ce qui frappe surtout c’est l’exubérance de la silhouette, l’emploi récurrent des volants, l’accumulation des étoffes et des ornements, l’éclectisme des décors où se mêlent historicisme et orientalisme, où le bleu vif côtoie le rose pastel. Mais au delà du port de la crinoline, de la rapidité des transformations de la silhouette, de la diversité des sources d’inspiration, la mode du Second Empire reflète les changements survenus en France depuis le début du siècle. Cet ouvrage richement illustré, témoigne de cette période très particulière dans l’histoire de la mode française. Conçu autour de trois grands thèmes (la fête à la ville et à la cour ; la modernisation ; la commercialisation) il aborde l’ensemble des aspects propres à la crinoline et à son époque. Mais il nous montre également à quel point elle fascine encore les créateurs. Regardons pour cela comment Jean-Paul Gaultier ou John Galliano (pour Dior) l’interprètent dans leurs collections automnes-hivers 2008-2009.

12/05/23

orders to:     booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

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[visualratatosk]

Collective memories, III, 3

[airplum-ballerines-chaussons]

Airplum propose des chaussons mules avec des motifs

Gardez vos pieds au chaud tout en restant stylée en choisissant la collection de mules d'hiver pour femmes d'Airplum. Vous aurez le choix entre des paires dotées de designs élégants en cuir ou avec des motifs ludiques en laine douce. Alors, ne manquez pas de visiter le site pour commander des chaussons ouverts pour cet hiver.

[adarkrainbow]

As you might have noticed with my latest post, I have been looking into Frau Holle recently. And I just read an article by Dominique Peyrache-Leborgne which has some interesting points.

The article starts out by pointing out the difficulty of translating "Frau Holle", the very name of the tale/entity, in French. "Frau" can become easily "Madame" or "Dame", Miss or Lady, no problem... But what about "Holle"? The very name is a part of German folklore - and not just German folklore, a very specific regional folklore in Germany around Hesse - and as such it means nothing to a French audience. Not only that, but since French is a Latin-derived language, unlike German, the very name "Holle" does not bear any connotations, implications or echoes in French the same way it does in German or even English. As such, while there were translations as "Madame Hollé" as early as 1869, the idea of keeping "Frau Holle" as "Frau Holle" or just transliterating as "Lady Holle" is quite recent - and only applies to scholarly translations. Meanwhile, for older or more "common" translations, a specific trend appeared in France, a translation-tradition that still lasts to this day. Translating Frau Holle as "Madame la Neige" (Miss Snow), "Dame Hiver" (Lady Winter) or other cold-related names.

An habit that the author of the article severely criticizes, because while indeed snow plays an important part in the fairytale, Frau Holle is not supposed to be a spirit of winter or an embodiment of the snow - or at least she does not appear exclusively as such. Frau Holle is a very complex cultural figure with various functions and appearances.

To help the audience understand the complexity of Frau Holle, the article presents in a simplified and summarized version the list of supernatural beings that appear in variations of the "Frau Holle" tale around the world - a list extracted from a work by Warren E. Roberts, a "very complete synthesis" called "The Tale of the Kind and Unkind Girls" (1958). To highlight this intertextuality not only helps understand the various roles and elements surrounding the "part" Frau Holle is supposed to play ; while also proving how Frau Holle synthetizes all of those various aspects together.

In most fairytales of the type "The Kind and Unkind Girls", the supernatural being is a female entity of magic. For example, a fairy - fairies are very recurring in this type of fairytale though, unlike in Perrault's famous "Diamonds and Toads", there is never just one fairy, they are always three. It is exemplified by Basile's "The Three Fairies" in his Pentamerone ; they also appear within several Judeo-Spanish fairytales of the Balkans (there was a recent anthology of them translated in French published by the José Corti edition), and it is quite common for these three fairies to be washer-women, or at least tied to water/rivers (several variations in the French region of Gascogne have the fairies as washer-women by the river). There is also an equally important number of fairytales, among these "female tales", where the girls rather deal with witches - characters that very easily replace or are confused with fairies in folktales. The most famous of those witches tale is the one Afanassiev called simply "The Baba Yaga", and where the famous Russian witch plays the part of Frau Holle. A third option also exists for the female magical being: just "an old woman", "little old woman", who is clearly magic but never called by any specific name like "fairy" or "witch" (this type of character, the "magical old woman", not quite a fairy not quite a witch, is very common among the Grimm fairytales). The "simple old woman" appears for example in another one of Basile's tales "The two little pizzas", and in a Bulgarian fairytale "Girl of gold, girl of ashes" (a story which did reach France through the Père Castor collection for children). Sometimes the old woman will ask to have lice removed from her head (for example in Greek fairytales). Finally, in lands with a strong Catholic presence, of course, the female supernatural entity is replaced by the Virgin Mary - something very common among Christianized fairytales, where the Virgin Mary plays the part of every positive female magical character (an example is the Spanish fairytale "Three Balls of Gold").

So we have here a quite coherent group of female entities, though quite ambiguous, the fairy-witch group. There is also a share of those stories that have male characters as the supernatural entity. Usually these are earthly entities tied somehow to nature: in the Ludwig Bechstein's "Golden Mary, Sticky Mary", it is a "wild man" or "savage man", the "Thürschemann" ; in Afanassiev's The Old Grumpy Woman it is a leshy, a male "forest spirit" ; and in Grimm's own "The Three Little Men of the Forest" it is, as the title says, three dwarves living in the woods. When it comes to the male stories, having them be a specific entity related to the weather or the flow of time similar to Frau Holle is quite common: in England you have Jack Frost, in Russia Grandfather Frost ; and in many European fairytales the supernatural group of men embodies either the four seasons or the twelve months (Basile's "The Months" for example ; the article also notes a 1996 French children book "Adeline, Adelune et le feu des saisons", Adeline, Adelune and the fire of the seasons).

Finally, there is also a set of tales with more enigmatic and mysterioues entities, whose roots seem to belong in myths, religious symbolism or magical rituals. For example in the Anglo-Saxon and Celtic traditions, the entity is usually three disembodied heads within a well, that asked for their hair to be brushed, or simply to be treated with respect. Miranda Jane Green evoked this trope within her "Celtic Myths", and James Orchard Halliweel collected a version of it, "The Three Heads in the Well" for his "Popular Rhymes and Nursery Tales of England".

And Frau Holle, as an old and ancient avatar of a lost Germanic goddess, manages to compile and regroup all of those aspects and all those various entities within her. Like the three heads in the well, she is associated with ancient myths and the world of the dead. Like the four seasons, the twelve months, and Jack/Grandfather Frost, she is a spirit of the weather and the cycle of time. Like the wild-men and forest-spirits, she is an entity of wilderness and nature (the Brothers Grimm, in their "German Legends", do note several times that she leads a "Wild Hunt" throughout the forest). And finally she is the ultimately fairy-witch ; she is the kind and benevolent wise woman... and the terrifying ogress-like long-teethed hag.

A complexity of character, a multiplicity of faces, that is retranscribed within the ungoing debate surrounding the etymology of "Holle". For those who want to study the German fairytales under a mythological angle (Jacob Grimm was one of the most famous names to do so, more recently Eugen Rewermann, a religion specialist, took back the Grimm theory), Holle is survivance of the old pagan goddess of Germany Hulda, a mother-earth goddess (hence why Frau Holle lives underground, down a well). This is notably this analysis that led Lucie Crane, the woman that translated the Grimm fairytales for the edition illustrated by Walter Crane, to translate "Frau Holle" as "Mother Hulda": it was an attempt to give back to her a mythological glory. But other scholars have argued that Frau Holle could also be a female version of this Norse winter-god associated with the dead that appears in the Eddas: Uller/Holler. Another analysis, that is tied to the fairytale, is the homonimy between "Frau Holle" and "die Hölle" - which is "Hell" of course, but since here Frau Holle rules over a benevolet underground "land of the dead", we can think of it as a generic term for the "Underworld" (the same way for example in some languages the Greek Underworld are referred to as "Hell" despite having the paradise of the Elysian Fields). And more so: "Holle" coul also be... "die Holde", which means kindness or benevolence.

Many, many possible readings all true in their own way, which not only testifies to the cultural wealth behind the figure of Frau Holle, but also reflects perfectly how the character is one of paradoxes, duality and multiplicites. Frau Holle is so powerful that she mixes the up and the down - her realm is underground and yet in it she makes it snow in the sky, as a goddess both chthonian and celestial... With Frau Holle, life and death becomes a blur ; and more importantly Frau Holle gathers within her all seasons, because she might make it snow like in winter, her domain is stilled filled with the fresh flowers of spring and the hot sun of summer...

[The author of the article did praise greatly John Warren Stewig's decision of translating the character's name as "Mother Holly" in 2001. "Holly" is close enough to "Holle" in sonority, but it also makes the character feel more familiar to an English-speaking audience since it is a quite common name ; and "Holly" also plays cleverly on both "holly", the plant, one of the defining symbols of winter, and "holy", evoking Frau Holle's alternate roles as a saint or a goddess]

[n0toh0mo0oo]

Denis Lewis et Susie Bick pour la collection "Portrait" de automne-hiver de Vivienne Westwood en 1990

[approximateknowledge]

on hivers and why they are the best

^behold: an artistic rendition of a typical hiver-frame (by me since i cannot find art of them for the life of me)

hivers are, fundamentally, swarms of genetically augmented cyborg roaches, the interactions of which generate the actual mind of the hiver-instance. these swarms are mostly housed in giant orbital assemblies and factories of billions of roaches

but these assemblies instance off individuals of a few thousand roaches regularly, which are then housed inside a mobile hiver frame, that is both hive and collective "mecha" for the instance (usually with a cylindrical hive-center which houses the actual insects that's easily visible, as it is here; although sometimes there's multiple smaller hive-clusters within a single frame too)

crucially the anatomy of a hiver frame can be *whatever*; the mind is always a bunch of cyborg bugs *somehwere* in the frame, but beyond that everything is fair game, it's ultimate morphological freedom

like a synth or vec but without that hacking-risk, because fundamentally the mind is *bugs*

and eventually, all instances return to the assembly

hivers are individuals made of mutable parts, constantly replacing insects that can merge back into the larger assembly in aggregate like it's *nothing*

can you tell i like them a lot?

because i do!

arthropod DIs ftw!

(the hiver here is no one specific instance named and described in the books, but parts of the design are based on trine and colvari's)