mepenelope:

Balmain Haute Couture fw 2002/2003 by Oscar de la Renta.

mepenelope:

Balmain Haute Couture fw 2002/2003 by Oscar de la Renta.

mepenelope:

Emmanuel Ungaro Haute Couture fw 2001/2002.

mepenelope:

Emmanuel Ungaro Haute Couture fw 2001/2002.

wizardhistory:


Pictured is a portrait of the magizoologist Contessa Jölle (1723-1792), the first ambassador to English merfolk and discoverer of multitudes of magical aquatic plants, shortly after a very famous, very tragic mishap. Ever the experimental charmsweaver—indeed, she is credited with the creation of the Bubble Head Charm at 14, several years later she would become afflicted with what the portrait above shows.
Contessa’s diaries show that she adored the North Sea, and spent months at a time at the Jölle house on the coast of northern Germany. Famously intolerant of most people, she preferred the company of her aquariums and the sound of the waves to ballroom gowns and pureblood soirees. She would spend long hours swimming in the sea after casting a charm she made herself to keep warm, and records mention she could hold her breath up to 6 minutes.
One summer afternoon in 1743, Jölle wrote that while vacationing by the shores of India she had completed her magnum opus—a spell to imitate the effects of gillyweed, inspired by the frustration of having to give up the sea mere hours. As her diary says, she eagerly cast the spell as she waded into the waters only to have colorful tentacles sprout where her hair once was. After the initial shock, she found this development to be quite delightful, and sported her bright, squirming appendages until her death. Of course, this caused quite the scandal for the noble house Jölle, and limited the amount of time that she could spend in public—but that was for the best for modern wizarding society, for without the subsequent gills that would open underwater, it would be a long time before Mermish culture would be documented, along with many aquatic plants and creatures that require extended stays underwater to observe well. 
Contessa Jölle died alone in her small cottage on the coast of the island of Majorca. Her will—which donated the entirety of her findings and scientific materials to the furthering of magizoology—asked only that her body be sent to sea to be in care of the local Mermish clan that she considered more of her family than her actual blood. She was awarded posthumously the Order of Merlin, Second Class for her work, and a magical aquarium in Spain is dedicated in her name.

Mr. W. Muir, 22nd of September, 2014.

wizardhistory:

Pictured is a portrait of the magizoologist Contessa Jölle (1723-1792), the first ambassador to English merfolk and discoverer of multitudes of magical aquatic plants, shortly after a very famous, very tragic mishap. Ever the experimental charmsweaver—indeed, she is credited with the creation of the Bubble Head Charm at 14, several years later she would become afflicted with what the portrait above shows.

Contessa’s diaries show that she adored the North Sea, and spent months at a time at the Jölle house on the coast of northern Germany. Famously intolerant of most people, she preferred the company of her aquariums and the sound of the waves to ballroom gowns and pureblood soirees. She would spend long hours swimming in the sea after casting a charm she made herself to keep warm, and records mention she could hold her breath up to 6 minutes.

One summer afternoon in 1743, Jölle wrote that while vacationing by the shores of India she had completed her magnum opus—a spell to imitate the effects of gillyweed, inspired by the frustration of having to give up the sea mere hours. As her diary says, she eagerly cast the spell as she waded into the waters only to have colorful tentacles sprout where her hair once was. After the initial shock, she found this development to be quite delightful, and sported her bright, squirming appendages until her death. Of course, this caused quite the scandal for the noble house Jölle, and limited the amount of time that she could spend in public—but that was for the best for modern wizarding society, for without the subsequent gills that would open underwater, it would be a long time before Mermish culture would be documented, along with many aquatic plants and creatures that require extended stays underwater to observe well.

Contessa Jölle died alone in her small cottage on the coast of the island of Majorca. Her will—which donated the entirety of her findings and scientific materials to the furthering of magizoology—asked only that her body be sent to sea to be in care of the local Mermish clan that she considered more of her family than her actual blood. She was awarded posthumously the Order of Merlin, Second Class for her work, and a magical aquarium in Spain is dedicated in her name.

Mr. W. Muir, 22nd of September, 2014.

darkbeautymag:

Photographer: Julien Palmiha - SILENCESHair: Yannick BiancanielloMakeup: Vanessa RoseModel: Tiffany Biancaniello

Paloma Lucientes y Lázaro, who hails from Ferreñafe, was sworn in today as an UMPA council member. A proponent of improvements in magical education, Ms. Lucientes promised in her campaign that as a councilwoman of la Unión mágica pan-andina (UMPA), she would create a mandatory curriculum of  pre-European and modern indigenous magic, region by region, to be taught in schools. She said of this platform, “In some schools, hundreds of years of magical practice and history are erased because they do not conform to European magical theory. We cannot allow children to erase their language, heritage, or identity for the sake of wand-waving.”

darkbeautymag:

Photographer: Julien Palmiha - SILENCES
Hair: Yannick Biancaniello
Makeup: Vanessa Rose
Model: Tiffany Biancaniello

Paloma Lucientes y Lázaro, who hails from Ferreñafe, was sworn in today as an UMPA council member. A proponent of improvements in magical education, Ms. Lucientes promised in her campaign that as a councilwoman of la Unión mágica pan-andina (UMPA), she would create a mandatory curriculum of pre-European and modern indigenous magic, region by region, to be taught in schools. She said of this platform, “In some schools, hundreds of years of magical practice and history are erased because they do not conform to European magical theory. We cannot allow children to erase their language, heritage, or identity for the sake of wand-waving.”

agameofclothes:

Modest gown for Sansa, Studio Ashi

agameofclothes:

Modest gown for Sansa, Studio Ashi

blackpaint20:

A horned witch, 18th centuryFrench SchoolPrivate Collection


Lucienne Archambault, the Horned Witch of Nice. Archambualt, whose family was cursed centuries back by a disgruntled warlock, was one of the first to turn what was then seen as a magically-caused disfigurement into a celebrated and adorned part of her body. After Archambault became a notable French socialite, many other wix uncovered their previously shameful horns. (Horns are a common hereditary curse side-effect.)

blackpaint20:

A horned witch, 18th century
French School
Private Collection

Lucienne Archambault, the Horned Witch of Nice. Archambualt, whose family was cursed centuries back by a disgruntled warlock, was one of the first to turn what was then seen as a magically-caused disfigurement into a celebrated and adorned part of her body. After Archambault became a notable French socialite, many other wix uncovered their previously shameful horns. (Horns are a common hereditary curse side-effect.)

fawnvelveteen:

Emilie Floge

fawnvelveteen:

Emilie Floge

Magdalena Petropoulos, a glassblower who creates magic-infused bottles and flasks for volatile potions, lives in the Cypriot block of wixen London, called Cinyras Square.

Magdalena Petropoulos, a glassblower who creates magic-infused bottles and flasks for volatile potions, lives in the Cypriot block of wixen London, called Cinyras Square.

noble-of-shadows:

10.1.14Hello October~

noble-of-shadows:

10.1.14
Hello October~

lelaid:

Mary Katrantzou F/W 2013

lelaid:

Mary Katrantzou F/W 2013

oldrags:

Theatre cape, ca 1920

oldrags:

Theatre cape, ca 1920

thepostmodernpottercompendium:

The scars don’t heal and people stare, or worse, offer her pity. Their eyes strip her and there she is, paraded naked, for them to consume her pain and feast upon her weakness. For them to narrate their histories of the war and trace tales of heroism in her wounds. 
But I’m ugly, she tells Parvati. Parvati gently traces the scars on her face and tells her she isn’t, but words, words are no armour against their stares.
Padma looks askance at her when she volunteers her body, living, breathing, to the Department of Mysteries. She must look a sight. Curls hanging unwashed and limp and tear streaks that refuse to be hidden - she tries, each time, they come back, she keeps crying though she tells herself to stop - and hands that shake in a way that shout bad decisions at everyone who notices it.
Lavender thinks of all the things she could say to Padma’s glare. I choose to be dismantled. New scars for old. I must hide.
She was seventeen when Fenrir Greyback mauled her face. She’d always been one of those girls. Pretty girls, girls who flirted and danced through life, who demanded attention and were always freely given the attention they demanded. Fenrir Greyback mauled her and she was left with scars that lingered not only on the inside, but on the outside as well.  She was no longer pretty. One of those girls, but not beautiful enough to dance and flirt her way through life anymore. In a matter of minutes Lavender Brown found herself being forced to find a new self, simply because of a scar that had ruined her face.
At least she had something in common with The Boy Who Lived.
But truthfully, she wished she could pass and pretend, as she strolled along Diagon Alley, that she was not scarred, or even falling apart. Fenrir had scarred her face and consequently placed her whole life, those horrible war years, all on display for people to come up to her and talk to her as though she was there to talk to them - that she was no more than a victim and a symbol of victimhood. A girl who deserved pity and not love and attention and the petting and cossetting that pretty girls all receive.
She was more than that.
I have nothing left to lose, she tells Padma.
They want someone - a witch, a wizard - on whom they can test the furthest reaches of magic. They’ve used magic to move cars, to do everything the electric could. Man, unmade and remade with a soul of steel, was the next logical step.
And it’s funny, being slowly dismantled under the cold harsh lights of the Department; it helps more than therapy sessions that circle around each other. How are you today? The same. Tell me how you feel? The same. Same old, same old. This is cold and clinical. At least they aren’t trying to peel her mask away and discover the whys and wherefores and the histories of the war as written on her body. They don’t care. There’s a precision to their destruction of her body, a meaningfulness that overwrites the meaningless violence of the scars Greyback left her. Each new incision cuts him out, this dirty cancerous growth that’s played on her mind for years now. 
It’s refreshing. 
A new set of scars for her to wear. A new pain to embrace. A new body to wear. Same old Lavender Brown; better clothes. 
Her therapist will purse her lips - not enough to be noticeable, that would be unprofessional - but three years of having people watch her every act and treating her like fragile glass that has been broken then glued back together, trying to save her from herself; she’s grown sensitive to the slightest twitch of the lips, the slightest crooking of eyebrow, the kind of thing most people would miss. The tiny little movements that even a professionally trained shrink can’t control. She knows them all. Knows exactly where to look for the tell-tale looks of disapproval.
But frankly, she would rather have real armour than the thoughts they want to wrap her in. Even the finest, fiercest warrior wears real armour when he goes into battle. No one sends him out, telling him that he must protect himself solely by the power of positive thinking. She wants weapons. She wants armour. Each day is a battle for her. This will be her armour, even if Parvati frowns at her and tells her she should have taken time to think about it.
No one thinks twice about giving a knight his armour before battle. Why should she?
Lavender Brown leaves the Department of Mysteries two weeks later, a body that is part metal and part wire and part flesh and bone. Magic, it turns out, works exactly the way they imagined it did. So do the scars. People stare, but for the first time in three years, Lavender finds she can toss her hair, just like she used to, and stroll down the street and truly feel unburdened and free.
For a moment, she is beautiful again.

thepostmodernpottercompendium:

The scars don’t heal and people stare, or worse, offer her pity. Their eyes strip her and there she is, paraded naked, for them to consume her pain and feast upon her weakness. For them to narrate their histories of the war and trace tales of heroism in her wounds.

But I’m ugly, she tells Parvati. Parvati gently traces the scars on her face and tells her she isn’t, but words, words are no armour against their stares.

Padma looks askance at her when she volunteers her body, living, breathing, to the Department of Mysteries. She must look a sight. Curls hanging unwashed and limp and tear streaks that refuse to be hidden - she tries, each time, they come back, she keeps crying though she tells herself to stop - and hands that shake in a way that shout bad decisions at everyone who notices it.

Lavender thinks of all the things she could say to Padma’s glare. I choose to be dismantled. New scars for old. I must hide.

She was seventeen when Fenrir Greyback mauled her face. She’d always been one of those girls. Pretty girls, girls who flirted and danced through life, who demanded attention and were always freely given the attention they demanded. Fenrir Greyback mauled her and she was left with scars that lingered not only on the inside, but on the outside as well.  She was no longer pretty. One of those girls, but not beautiful enough to dance and flirt her way through life anymore. In a matter of minutes Lavender Brown found herself being forced to find a new self, simply because of a scar that had ruined her face.

At least she had something in common with The Boy Who Lived.

But truthfully, she wished she could pass and pretend, as she strolled along Diagon Alley, that she was not scarred, or even falling apart. Fenrir had scarred her face and consequently placed her whole life, those horrible war years, all on display for people to come up to her and talk to her as though she was there to talk to them - that she was no more than a victim and a symbol of victimhood. A girl who deserved pity and not love and attention and the petting and cossetting that pretty girls all receive.

She was more than that.

I have nothing left to lose, she tells Padma.

They want someone - a witch, a wizard - on whom they can test the furthest reaches of magic. They’ve used magic to move cars, to do everything the electric could. Man, unmade and remade with a soul of steel, was the next logical step.

And it’s funny, being slowly dismantled under the cold harsh lights of the Department; it helps more than therapy sessions that circle around each other. How are you today? The same. Tell me how you feel? The same. Same old, same old. This is cold and clinical. At least they aren’t trying to peel her mask away and discover the whys and wherefores and the histories of the war as written on her body. They don’t care. There’s a precision to their destruction of her body, a meaningfulness that overwrites the meaningless violence of the scars Greyback left her. Each new incision cuts him out, this dirty cancerous growth that’s played on her mind for years now.

It’s refreshing.

A new set of scars for her to wear. A new pain to embrace. A new body to wear. Same old Lavender Brown; better clothes.

Her therapist will purse her lips - not enough to be noticeable, that would be unprofessional - but three years of having people watch her every act and treating her like fragile glass that has been broken then glued back together, trying to save her from herself; she’s grown sensitive to the slightest twitch of the lips, the slightest crooking of eyebrow, the kind of thing most people would miss. The tiny little movements that even a professionally trained shrink can’t control. She knows them all. Knows exactly where to look for the tell-tale looks of disapproval.

But frankly, she would rather have real armour than the thoughts they want to wrap her in. Even the finest, fiercest warrior wears real armour when he goes into battle. No one sends him out, telling him that he must protect himself solely by the power of positive thinking. She wants weapons. She wants armour. Each day is a battle for her. This will be her armour, even if Parvati frowns at her and tells her she should have taken time to think about it.

No one thinks twice about giving a knight his armour before battle. Why should she?

Lavender Brown leaves the Department of Mysteries two weeks later, a body that is part metal and part wire and part flesh and bone. Magic, it turns out, works exactly the way they imagined it did. So do the scars. People stare, but for the first time in three years, Lavender finds she can toss her hair, just like she used to, and stroll down the street and truly feel unburdened and free.

For a moment, she is beautiful again.

fawnvelveteen:

1951 Cristobal Balenciaga. Evening wrap

fawnvelveteen:

1951 Cristobal Balenciaga. Evening wrap


“From Here To Eternity" Saskia De Brauw By Sølve Sundsbø For Vogue China September 2014


Looking at the blinding sky, a wix in the Atacama desert tells me, “The sky here has many magics to teach. La noche está estrellada, y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos," they quote. "Neruda must have been an astrologer, because great love and great loss is coming. Maybe if the sand and the sky teaches me enough I will survive one, if not the other."  
They apparate away from me, and miles in the distance I see them reappear, a black spot on red-brown earth, wandering towards the silhouettes of mountains.
—From the travel journals of Newt Scamander, who encountered much more than fantastic beasts in his time.

[The poem quoted is “Poema XX” by Pablo Neruda, a writer most famous for his love poems. The quotation reads, “The night is starry, and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”]

From Here To Eternity" Saskia De Brauw By Sølve Sundsbø For Vogue China September 2014

Looking at the blinding sky, a wix in the Atacama desert tells me, “The sky here has many magics to teach. La noche está estrellada, y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos," they quote. "Neruda must have been an astrologer, because great love and great loss is coming. Maybe if the sand and the sky teaches me enough I will survive one, if not the other." 

They apparate away from me, and miles in the distance I see them reappear, a black spot on red-brown earth, wandering towards the silhouettes of mountains.

—From the travel journals of Newt Scamander, who encountered much more than fantastic beasts in his time.

[The poem quoted is “Poema XX” by Pablo Neruda, a writer most famous for his love poems. The quotation reads, “The night is starry, and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”]