Justin Bland, from the forthcoming book Shells

Gina Telaroli, Remember the Night (Mitchell Leisen, 1940)

Monica Vitti at home, 1960 (found image)

Natalie Lomeli, Tianjin

Midnight Sun
for D.H. Lawrence

For my evening walk, I choose
    white gossamer, one shape

wandering among slender black
    cypress and arching ferns.

You prefer a rougher
    sleep shirt, legs roaming free

You say, "Sheep sheering
    makes me steamy."

At dusk, hedgerows breathe
    heavy and steep.

We drink ginger tea
    in porcelain cups.

You seem transfigured—dipping
    and bounding toward the sea,

then turn,
    galloping strangely toward me.

I say, "We are all nude
    in the midnight sun."


Jeanine Stevens

Yvonne Most, Wendenmädchen, 2010

Serrah Russell, She Wore Her Grandma's Dress

Le Monde Vivant (Eugene Green, 2003)    (PDF of supporting text by Ignatiy Vishnevetsky)

Shauna Sanchez, Untitled, 2010

Jovanna Tosello, JUMPER

Alyssa Volpigno, Open Up

Reina de Vries, Enschede

Too often nowadays, we receive movies in degraded form. We might get to see more, but what we see in them lacks light and weight—it's
getting more difficult to talk about anything material. But sometimes objects retain something of their real mass. An instance here, in a
shot at the end of a film by Peter Hutton. It's a third-hand encode, but for once, in the curl of fabric, there's a memory of ribboned
film, the pastness of an event:...for we see that everything grows less and seems to melt away with the lapse of time and withdraw its
old age from our eyes. And yet we see no diminution in the sum of things (Lucretius). The film's about the city of Łódź, its everyday
sights and sounds: streets, walls, industry, workers, vagabonds, monuments. Hutton's made many of these on 16mm, portraits of cities,
rivers, the sea: always silent, without narrative, never minimalist. Occasionally they're projected at festivals or in galleries, but
the rest of the time they circulate underground in this basest of forms—unspooling as variable bitrates, not shadowplays. What remains
is a mutable image pointed to an opening between two rooms, a camera in one and open to the other. The surface of the screen is greyed,
faint, veiled by analogue flickers and colour warp, functioning like gauze. A net curtain billows in the wind, once and twice: at last,
a semblance of light, a bleached sheet, a ghost of movement, a travelling of atoms. Clothes, curtains, leaves, they're the only way you
can see the wind in movies. And the only way we'll remember them too.

Matthew Flanagan