Lost Between Centuries

The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are cultivated. For these there is hope.

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.

Books are well written or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of Romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral life of a man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of the art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved.

No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.

No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.

thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and vitrue are to the artist materials for an art.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensly.

All art is quite useless.

The Preface,

The Picture of Dorian Gray

~Oscar Wilde


xxx

Kamalia

Frills are a Girl's Best Friends

'Tis true.

If you expected any deep words to accompany these pictures you shall be highly disappointed. My fatigue prevents me from writing anything more than a couple of words at a time.

xxx

Kamalia

Two days of Hats

I have always been very fond of hats, in every shape or form. Big or small, extravagant or simple. They all have a special place in my heart. And in the last two or three days Hats, or Mini hats to be exact, have been constantly on my mind. Considering how much I love these hats I would certainly never say no to aquiring another one and so, when my friend and I started talking about minihats last... sunday I believ it was, I was immediately ensnared by the idea of making my own miniature headwear and decorate them as I wish. And that is where it all started...

Believe me when I say that I had never, EVER, tried anthing of the sort before and so I was pleasantly surprised to see how well my very first hat turned out. Is it not strange how a little fabric, some cardboard, a piece of metal wire and some glue can be put together to create such a beautiful thing? Not to mention the many yards of white satin ribbon, the soft feathers and the beautiful roses I used as decorations.

So low and behold; my very first attempt at the creation of hats:

I simply adored how it turned out in the end and that high has lingered in the last two days. Yesterday it was even so strong that I could not help but attempt to make yet another hat. Of course, this time I has company in the shape of my dear friend Emmelie and together we sat for hours until we finally were satisfied with the results. Unfortunately, I only have a photograph of the hat I made so you shall all have to settle with that one alone.

Is is not gorgeous?

And yes, I shall stop praising myself. For now anyway.

A question of Sweet versus Gothic~

Upon uploading a the pictures from my previous post, on a site whose name I shall not mention, I, or rather my friend who did the uploading, was met with a particularly odd comment. A girl whom I have never talked to, or even heard off before, claimed that I looked much too sweet to wear an outfit that was completely black. I, who have been fond of all things gothic for several years, was very surprised to hear such a thing and I found myself wondering if there was any truth in that statement. Am I really too sweet to wear gothic clothing? Or does dark colors suit me better? Or is it something in between that is the most appropriate for my pale complexion and red hair? Which Lolita genre suits me best: Sweet, Classic or Gothic?

Personally, vain and egocentric as I am, I believe that I have the ability to pull of all of the different categories. However, I would very much like to know the opinions of all of my little minions, and the rest of you who read my entries. Therefore, I shall ask you all to vote for whichever genre you think is the most appropriate for me in the poll to the right.

And for you who have a hard time distinguishing between the different genres I here have added three pictures that represent each and every one of them. Or at least they represent the way I look upon Sweet, Classic and Gothic Lolita.

Sweet~
Not very close to the extreme, but sweet enough for me.

Classic~
Perhaps not as classic as I could be, but it it the closest I have gotten in a photograph.

Gothic~
As dark as I get.

Singing in the Streets

The spring season has finally reached the forgotten little country called Sweden and we have been overcome by the will to dress up in our frilly dresses and go out on the town. As such, photographs are to become a common occurance here for the next few months and so I shall have to beg your indulgance. Hopefully you will not find it as boring as I might suspect.

On a lighter note... When these pictures were taken, yesterday to be exact, my friend and I ran into the most charming fellow. It was an Australian gentleman who sat by the gargoyle fountain on Stor Torget in Gamla Stan. He had a guitar in his lap and was playing and singing to a lot of known, and unknown, songs. He happened to be much more talented, and more handsome, than most street musicians we had ever seen so we spent quite a lot of time talking to him, not to mention singing along to his music.

Unfortunately, I have yet gotten my hands on a photograph of all of us together so that shall have to wait. But, considering the fact that he claimed to sit there and sing quite often, I have no doubt that we will see him again. I am looking forward to it.

In a field of little white flowers~

Teaparties among the spring flowers are a pleasant, but rare occurance in the everyday life we all live. Strolls in the countryside and sweet conversations in the shade of an oak tree are much too uncommon and I hope to remedy that this fateful summer. Truly, there is nothing more calming than a cup of tea and the fragrance of wild flowers brought to you by the gentle breeze.

I shall only hope that the weather holds...

Of Sirens and Cake

As the monthly pain rips through my lower abdomen I find myself craving intelligent coversation. A tête-à-tête, or dialogue if you will, filled with well thought through arguments where both participants feel the need to prove their point and, at the same time, crave the answers that only the other holds. I dream of an hour or two filled with articulate comments even about the most trivial things, and perhaps even the things we do not believe in. Of fairies and sirens and the most complex of literature. Of the gods of old, and of cakes with a sugary icing. Of anything and everything and I would be happy.

Unfortunately, there are only so many people in the world which can provide such a wonderous discussion and, at the moment, they, as well as time, seems to be slipping out of reach. The stress is slowly creeping up behind me, ready to swallow me whole as soon as I do not expect it. Toughts of what to do and when to do it are prominent in my mind and I find myself unable to decide. It is like a heartless is hiding somewhere in the dark corners of my room, draining all of mine energy and motivation, leaving me empty and lonely. I would wish for more time but it would be without use for I have no timeturner, nor do I have a timemachine that could provide the extra minutes, hours or years needed to decide.

So instead I do what I can to try to be happy, even for the briefest of moments. And now I shall have some cake to lighten my mood.