RAVEN

 

performed by Tamino

_________________

"I hear the raven crow / See a shadow go like a wave that covers me…"

"I watched the raven fly and paint the darkest sky / Every night she dies to me."

It feels like stepping into a cold, quiet room where the air immediately stills. Raven is a physical weight. Tamino’s voice begins as a low, chest-resonant murmur, lingering in the quiet before soaring into a falsetto that pierces every defence. It carries the weight of a secret shared in an empty cathedral at twilight; raw, vulnerable, and beautifully unfiltered. 

The lyrics pull you straight into a tide of inevitable surrender. They speak of devotion, fate, and that electric threshold where running toward something terrifying feels like the only true way home. It is a song for the quiet hours, for those moments when longing becomes a physical ache. 

SU CORPU, SA MARE E SU SOLE

 

        ©tedorè

The sun overhead is a heavy, physical force, pressing down on the landscape until the coast exhales its deepest, most hidden scents. The air is dense, saturated, pulled taut like a string ready to snap. Every step along the baked, dusty path through the pine grove feels like a slow ritual of exposure, an invitation to shed everything brought along from the cold, enclosed spaces of everyday life. Here, the world strips down to its most raw, unforgiving essence. The sharp stones beneath bare feet, the scent of resin bleeding from wounded bark, and the blinding brilliance of the horizon demand absolute surrender, unconditional and complete. 

The heat doesn’t just touch the skin here; it bruises itself into the flesh, thick with the scent of pine, salt, and sun-baked earth. 

At the edge of the cliff, the body yields to the waiting. Time stretches into a wide, pulsing expanse where every single moment carries the weight of eternity. Below, the sea opens up like a vast, breathing creature, hammering in steady intervals against the dark ribs of the rock. In that sound echoes a primordial, unyielding will. The cliff's edge stands as a sacred threshold, the place of passage between who I was a breath ago and the unknown waiting in the deep. 

My breath hitches before the fall, that single, suspended heartbeat where air leaves the lungs and gravity loses its grip, turning me into a bow drawn tight between sky and abyss. Then, the violent shock of the cold water, breaking over my chest, swallowing me whole into a muted, emerald cathedral of silence. Beneath the surface, the world collapses. I feel the blood hammering in my neck, hyper-aware of every tendon stretched tight, every muscle contracting against the surge. 

PORTRAIT OF AN ABSENCE: MARTIN MARIELA'S ARCHIVE COMES TO PARIS

    all images courtesy of ©Maurice Auction

Martin Margiela was born in the Belgian town of Genk in 1957, trained at Antwerp's Royal Academy of Fine Arts, and spent four years, beginning in 1984, assisting Jean Paul Gaultier before opening his own house with his business partner, Jenny Meirens. Their first serious decision as a label read almost like a riddle: how does a fashion house announce itself through silence alone? Their answer was a small white label, sewn on with four visible stitches, deliberately loose, designed to be cut away entirely; remove it, and a garment belonged only to its wearer. That single gesture, refusal disguised as design, set the tone for the following twenty years: veiled models, interviews conducted by fax, a documentary that let his voice speak while his face stayed hidden. Now, an unusual reversal is under way. The man who spent a career erasing his own signature has agreed to let two hundred of his most private possessions carry it for him, publicly, in Paris, under a gavel. 

In Paris, Maurice Auction and Kerry Taylor Auctions will offer around 195 lots drawn from Margiela's personal archive; objects kept rather than displayed, used rather than photographed. Organisers describe the sale as the first occasion a living creator has placed such material directly into an auction house's hands. It plays out as an unguarded afternoon, arriving from a man who spent an entire career keeping such afternoons locked away. 

A certain irony sits inside the timing. The sale falls on 9 July 2026, at two in the afternoon, precisely as Paris turns its attention toward the newest ideas of Haute Couture Week, and this quieter counter-current surfaces instead; the record of ideas already lived through, offered by an alliance across the Channel represented respectively by Salomé Pirson and fashion specialist Alex Baddeley, who now stage such sales twice a year, writing fashion history through objects rather than runways. What they will offer spans twenty-four years of a single hand at work; from 1984, when Margiela's earliest efforts took shape for La Canette d'Or in Antwerp, through 2008, when he stepped away from the house carrying his name, with a small handful of later additions made during the pandemic years, as if even solitude eventually asked to be catalogued. 

SENTIMENTAL VALUE

 

click on the image and let the music hold you

FORMS OF DESIRE

 

      a personal image made from the exhibition

March 8th, afternoon light

Palazzo Reale. The doors open into a different kind of church.

I went alone. I always do with artists I love this much. Solitude lets me move at my own rhythm, return to what calls me, and stand as long as I need without accounting for anyone else's time.

Forms of Desire - the title already knows what I came for. What I've been circling toward. The pull is stronger than reason, older than language.

The exhibition (find some photos here) doesn't move chronologically. It moves the way longing moves, elliptical, returning, deepening with each pass.

The early collages. Bodies torn from magazines, reassembled according to a grammar I'm still learning to read. Mapplethorpe, before he mastered light, when desire was still something raw, unrefined, showing its teeth.

I step close. Close enough to see where his hands made choices, where scissors met paper, where he decided what stays and what gets cut away. The violence of it. The tenderness.

My pulse slows. The city outside fades. There is only this: standing in front of evidence that someone else felt this, too. This needs to take the world apart and put it back together in the shape of what you want.