There are books and then there are the books we all would love to have or offer to a loved one. We also love to use them as statement pieces in our home or even sit down and relentlessly turn the pages, something I adore.
Huge passion for Steeve MC Curry. I collect his books all the while waiting to gift myself one of his images. From each of his portraits we feel some sort of humanity, each of his projects have an obvious message through them, but a message one must have thought about, he did. We are all exposed to images all the time; his however do not cease to impress me. Unfortunately I missed out on two occasions to meet him, every time I was not in Paris. Hello sadness.
Last week though, I met Marie Crevits, a fellow blog reader and huge Islamic art preacher. She followed courses at the school of the Louvre and I wanted to get to know her better and listen to her story that got her to adoring Islamic art. We live in a world of phobia where the words islam is immediately suspect, and even I question my interest on Islamic art from Cordoue to Delhi. As the conversation moved forward, I asked her for some advice regarding my desire to learn more about art history in general.
This desire of mine was born in Florence, the first time I went there and visited the offices museum. I would even love to find the time to sign up to the school of the Louvre as a free auditor signed up to night classes, but in the meantime I am diving into this bible to understand how art can go beyond its subjectivity and start having more of a political or social connotation. That’s mainly what interests me, more than the technicality of it all.
Finally, this magnificent book dedicated to Yves, I can’t bring myself to call him Saint Laurent being the old school woman that I am. Upon opening this book, I concretely discover life in a fashion house. What did I like? The series of sketches dedicated to the Opium perfume, a manuscript letter written to Pierre Bergé where I discovered his handwriting as well as his take on love. I loved the sentence “It’s us, and when I say us it’s you, before everything, it’s you” all the clumsiness becomes so tender. His pink silk shirts with exerts from Jean Cocteau on the back “Soleil moi je suis noir dedans et rose…” My god how gorgeous! The pictures are strong, he always transgressed the taboo of nudity, him who would always worked so closely to women’s’ bodies.