The French New Wave

Should it be called the New French New Wave? Not quite as catchy...

It has been one of these days: I am tired, I have silly questions in my head, I have been dragging the same cold on and on for the last 2 weeks (I think my teeth are turning black from the Echinoa elixir I am actually drinking from the bottle without even taking the time to dilute it in water anymore), I have a weird onion after-taste in my mouth although I have eaten only grapes tonight (really couldn't be bothered cooking in the middle of the emotional turmoil I have fallen in), I am trying to concentrate but the only place I can write is in the living room, my flatmates are in watching MI5 and the the very cute one is commenting quite loudly (even squeaking, how on earth did he come up with this sound?!) on the James Bond-type whereabouts...

PMS probably but at this point I just ... want... to... go in the middle of a forest somewhere and scream... AaaaAaAH!


This is a bloody mess I feel like I am stuck in one of these French New Wave movies, like Duras' Moderato Cantabile, where the narrative structure is completely broken into a thousand million pieces and there are slow-downs and forwards and it's all black , white, way too slow and not happening and when it does happen it just explodes in your face with a silent smile before it had the time to start.


You know? The New Wave. And there it goes: see these photos taken by Paolo Roversi for the New York Times: the project is entitled the New French Wave. Black, white, minimalistic, passionate, broken, obscure and introvert and so scary when it comes to the Cassel one but so incredibly revelatory? That's not too far from my mood. Well I am obviously flattering myself because I am in no way a millionth as intense as these people. In these pictures. This is about the point where fashion and psychology meet and tear apart from each other... The brightest darkest of French cinema stars and style icons of this time in Roversi's merciless lens.


Champagnista V