From burdened clouds of mournful grey...

   Wednesday. And the promise of a rainy afternoon. While roaming the streets, letting the petite raindrops play through my hair, i discover this beautiful, cosy café. A unique little place, Cafe Vintage is where fashion meets art & passion. Between the lovely teacups filled with apple & cinnamon flavours, the nice books or the exquisite selection of vintage clothes and jewelry, I completely forgot where I was and went back in time for a moment. It is like a magic corner wonderfully decorated and organised. 

Photos by: Emegha Eleode


Les années 1940

 I have always been fascinated by 1940's style. When money and materials were limited, women created their outfits with hand-me-downs and old mended clothes. The 40's gave way to an explosion of glamour: from satin evening gowns to tailored skirt suits or sumptuous coats, women were alluring, exuding authority behind their silhouette.

Photos: B. Bhatt

The 1940's were a brilliant decade for fashion. Hollywood's Golden Age stars – from Veronica Lake, Eva Gardner, Bette Davis and Joan Crawford to Rita Hayworth, Katharine Hepburn and Grace Kelly – dazzled in gorgeous gowns, while women across the West embraced a more ordinary, yet chic, look.

Rue Rambuteau, Paris 1946, Willy Ronis

"Dinerettes and sodapops, 
New blue bathing suite,
Ruched tops and Cadillacs.

Blue lake car to dunks, 
Hop skotch, shit talk, 
Alabama hard knocks,
Motel dresslocks.

We're gonna party, 
Like it's 1949, 
We're in the Pontiac, 
From July to July..."


Spring Transition

 We're having such a warm and beautiful weather in London. The feeling that spring is just around the corner has set a more positive energy around me. As Voltaire would say, "I have decided to be happy, because it is good for myself". I took these photos on Friday; in a calming and relaxing mood, it was the perfect way to start another creative and productive day. I'm really excited and looking forward to the upcoming projects and events going on in my life. Stay tuned for continuing updates.

Bisous x

Photos by: B. Bhatt


Adieu, Bill Knott

Today is truly a sad day in literature. I am utterly shocked and regretful finding out that Bill Knott - one of my poetry idols, my model of a political poet, critic, contrarian, anti poet- is no longer living.

Published under the pseudonym Saint Geraud, a name he found in a French pornographic novel, Bill Knott’s first book contained some of his most powerful and most quoted work, including two poems that could do double duty as epitaphs.
Virtuosic with compact verse, Mr. Knott needed but three lines for his poem “Death”:

Going to sleep, I cross my hands on my chest.
They will place my hands like this. 
It will look as though I am flying into myself.

With eight fewer words, “Goodbye” is shorter still:

If you are still alive when you read this,
Close your eyes. I am
Under their lids, growing black.

Widely admired on the page and in the classroom, Mr. Knott taught at Emerson College for more than 25 years, published many books of poetry, self-published uncounted others, and was awarded the Iowa Poetry Prize. 
Mr. Knott, who wrote his first book of poetry while working as a hospital orderly, died of complications from heart surgery yesterday, March 12 in a Bay City hospital, not far from his home. He was 74 and had moved a few years ago back to the state of his youth.

Although he told one interviewer he thought his work fell “within the minimalist or imagist tradition”, Mr. Knott ranged easily through poetry’s many forms, writing longer works in rhyming couplets, villanelles, sestinas, sonnets, haiku, and one-line bursts. Poets Mary Karr and Robert Pinsky, a former US poet laureate, each praised Mr. Knott in The Washington Post’s “Poet’s Corner” feature. In 2008, Karr noted how Mr. Knott exercised the power of brief verse after US bombs accidentally killed children during the Vietnam War:

The only response
to a child’s grave is
to lie down before it and play dead.

“Knott is not the type to win prizes, become the pet of academic critics, or cultivate acolytes”, Pinsky wrote in 2005. “But this thorny genius has added to the art of poetry”.
Knott’s voluble self-flagellation may have been some strange play for publicity, but the facts of his biography raise the uncomfortable possibility that at least some of his stunts — even, perhaps, his faked suicide — were expressions of unbearable inner turmoil. Like his alter ego, Saint Geraud, Knott was an orphan. His mother died when he was six, his father died when he was eleven, and he lived in an orphanage in central Illinois for eight years. He did a stint in a state mental hospital —“How I survived that hell I’ll never know”, he once said — which was followed by two miserable years on his uncle’s farm, and two more in the Army. In his later life, Knott faulted himself for not being able to turn these experiences into poetry. But, here, as in most things, he protested too much. One of his best poems, “The Closet”, takes us back, wrenchingly, to the aftermath of his mother’s death, when he was six years old:

Here not long enough after the hospital happened
I find her closet lying empty and stop my play
And go in and crane up at three blackwire hangers
Which quiver, airy, released. They appear to enjoy

Their new distance, cognizance born of the absence
Of anything else.

Mr. Knott devoted one of his blog pages to collages he created from the many rejection slips he received. He also posted his art online, and illustrated with drawings some of small books he made by hand, creating beautiful keepsakes his friends and colleagues treasured. After publishing his collection “The Unsubscriber”, Mr. Knott largely used the Internet to distribute his work for free through his blogs, but he also sold his work via Amazon, where most of his self-published books are listed as out of print. On March 7, he published on his blog what it would have been his very last poem.

Living his life as performance art, as tragicomedy, he changed my ideas of what poetry is and can be.
It's late right now and I'm fading a little. Goodnight, Bill Knott, you one of a kind.

We brush the other, invisible moon
Its caves come out and carry us inside.


Le Crépuscule du matin

I love the night-time words, rain-filled streets & all-night city lights..and I like leaving. 

Always having a permanent desire to explore, to learn about different cultures, to know more about everything and anything, I "get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop" (J. Kerouac). Quelquefois je peux être trouvé dans l'air, parfois dans les vagues de la mer, ou dans l'autopsie d'un rêve; sometimes i'm the reason certain people's eyelashes meet in order to sink slowly and catastrophically into nothingness, or I'm used as an excuse for a glass of red wine to be finished, but most of the time I can be found in an envelope as a letter from a passed day, or week, a month, or even years, when everything i wanted was to be placed on a bed-sheet or be identified with one, and be surrounded with books, oh yes, get lost in books and covered with words. 

I've chosen my getaway city to be what Ezra Pound used to call 'London, deah old London is the place for poesy'. Here is where I wake up every morning with intense thrills of adventure, avec un désir de découvrir plus en chaque moment qui passe. 

The key to make this journey more delightful is trying to avoid ce que la plupart des gens connaissent. Between losing myself to writing and sipping bits of inspiration from the city, I try to search for what’s less known about, but beautiful at the same time. Sometimes it can be hidden in books, or at the corner of least crowded streets, entre les cafés et les bibliothèques, as P.S. notes à la fin de lettres d'amour. 

I let the sun play on my skin; rain too. Because I love noticing people, building up stories behind their expressions. 

Places with a story are fascinating. And the world has plenty of them to offer.