The lovely maternity shoot

Bzzz in da hood

Museum night part 2

This part wasn't quite so easy. It is a bitch, being a nostalgic historian. Sometimes I don't only remember past - I mourn it.

           Once she retired, my grandma gave all of her shop to the museum. By this I mean ALL of her shop. The shop-window on display in the museum "street of the past" is the original shop window. Original down the curtains. The interior is a lot smaller, obviously, but the artifacts are all hers. Authentic, genuine stuff. That grandma not only touched but worked for the better part of the century. I grew up in that shop. I know every single detail of it absolutely. I could tell you of a million memories associated with the objects. there is a movie with interviews playing and grandma narrates her profession, how she got the moulds and materials and how she made the hats. I had to leave ere tears started coming down my face. There really is nothing worse than a living relic.

Not too sure about the sign, but everything else, almost all of the objects, are original

I actually remember these flowers while they were still alive. It's possible I was there when they were bought

The curtains, the stands. hats weren't such derelicts, but suchlike were there. She made eight at a time.

Once you entered, this was on the left - the display and the precious old mirror.I MISS these things.

Room didn't end here and the table wasn't so small, I think. nor were the walls so empty. The walls were full of shelves.

A lot of grabndma's secrets were in the moulds. The museum inherited all the moulds, but I hardly believe anyone would know how to use them. I, on the other hand, would know how to use them in the dark.

Another precious furniture piece. The customer's chair.

The old iron. One of three, I think.

This door is turned inside out. In reality, it was the outside lock. every evening, gran (and I) would lock up and go home, but stop after a few yards and return to double-check.

This is where I grew up. This is where I played with ribbons and buttons and sew things. Most of my childhood, even a vast majority of my teenage-hood evolved here. Sooo many conversations. So many scenes. Sooooo many people. there was never just gran. there were always people who came to visit and she's chat non-stop while working, non-stop. She was such a social unit. Yeesh, all those women. The gossip, the class! What an odd, odd, wondrous workshop that place was ... to grow up in.

Museum night part 1

Oddly picturesque day today. Oddly hot, too. Like - headache hot. Eating a bucket of popcorn did not help.
            Early in the morning, I set off to shoot a lovely lady 8 months pregnant. That was a joy. Their estate is adorable, so we had a lot of relaxed fun. They fed me watermelon and ice-cream, which was mighty fine ending to a cool shoot.
            The town was alive as ever. On my way to say hi to Drej - who was on the library yard jewelry and crafts fair (luckily I left my money at home. I would not have been able to resist otherwise. Like an old addict, I am such a sucker for my drug of choice, which is unique decor.), I passed a painting colony set in the middle of town, a karaoke in one of the centre cafes and a flea marked in the upper end of the main street.
             Maja and I went to the movies, very early on. Always such a welcomed retreat :D We even discovered a new chocolate. I'd show a photograph of it, but General murdered it in mid air as soon as I mentioned it's in the fridge.
             In the evening, the museum night started. Museum night means all museums are opened free of charge until midnight. I went to an opening, which was outdoors. A young poet-like man, accompanied by an accordion player, recited war poetry. For a while. I suspect he wanted to see if he can make the audience commit group suicide, but luckily, we endured. The exhibition was about war hostages of this town, being shot and whatnot. their letters were on display, alongside the photographs of their executed corpses. That was pretty fucking depressing. I beelined through it fast, greeting some of the familiar faces. In the memoriam book, I thanked the historians for putting the glass between such a reality and keen spectators. I said some memories don't deserve to be laid to rest.
             My intention was to retreat into the underbelly of the city, to enjoy the old roman ruins now restored, but there were too many people there. I will photograph that place some other time. It really is very cool.
            
             I collected all the gratis memorabilia and there were vintage cars driving around, inviting passangers for a joyride.

505 "with a line" were super yummy candy that I still recall :D

Soon, duckies, soon

When somebody thinks you are a famous or at least an important author, and they ask your to read their beginner's work - and place an opinion on it - don't. Don't do that. They don't want to hear your opinion, they want to hear praise. Even if you praise it for an hour, as soon as you hit 'but', it's over. Fan becomes enemy. Young writer becomes an angry old writer. There is just no way out of it, that would benefit anybody. Young writers and the truth are two forces at war. Don't get in between. 

If you really, really, really must get into that, just highlight the good stuff about the piece. Say it has an amazing narrative, characters are well developed, the style is young and fresh and perky. Whatever. Just lie. In this case a lie is a much, much better alternative. BELIEVE ME. I've been there. Both sides.

Idiot in an icecream bowl.

 

Joke of the week: this time by Drej

Since my first published novel, I have began writing really, really short sentences. I am very fond indeed of loooong passages, but those were the ones who got the most complaints. Drej taught me that to withdraw the reader's effort from staying focused for minutes at the time, you allow them to focus more on the narrative. So, lately, I have been making certain my sentences are super short.

So short, in fact, that this morning Drej said, (as she's been professionally proof-reading Gorgi) she sometimes has to patch two together to make them into a proper sentence.

Whoopsy.

Overkill :D :D :D