Twenty8Twelve in St Tropez for the Pro Alvear CupJuly 31 2012, 10:00
A Poetic Review by Greta Bellamincina (pictured with polo players Lyndon Lea and Juan Pepa)
A deckchair space, unfolds in the flickering glory of the serene shores of St Tropez. A tangle of beauty evokes blinding motion. A polo match transcends along the heated fields of the South of France. Lying in the vastness of the crowd, anticipation sparks a sense of excitement. Flirtation with the production of speed beats along the horizon. The landscape is a freedom of sun and sun dance. The settling of the day drifts by like a summer, testing and foregoing. A gypsy vision of the night leads the sketches of Twenty8Twelve in the infinite sleeves of July.
Friends in rooms
In the chameleon of their love,
She rests her hands on the age of his fancy.
Supporting her weight and her femininity,
Irresistible in Brera.
Built and dark,
An hour overlooked.
Delicate and assured.
Airy in the vast register,
Of temptation’s scenery.
They escape, to sleep
Next to friends in rooms.
Their images shaded and steamed.
Comfort. In mending shapes,
The night unfolds in acres of dusk.
She samples his warmth.
Questions are spoken, in voices
Washed out. Her body invites the exception,
To the bridge and a lake.
All life closed. Wild futures hang,
Lengthy, long and synchronized.
Accidental when watched,
Close together. They go home.
Underground Sensation of SohoJuly 23 2012, 10:37
A Poetic Review
by Greta Bellamacina (photos by Jacob Perlmutter)
The slanting streets of Soho disappear in and out of diffused light. A reality of the night, dampened into the electrifying mystery of the day. Sunken back streets play a fable to a time of blasting mayhem. Milk & Honey a windowless secret, serving pink ladies to interlacing strangers. The taste transcends sweet elegance and a comforting getaway from the cascading roads of central London. Masked in a coloured chameleon dress from Twenty8Twelve, casts a wild underground sensation from a quite corner of Soho.
A passing in Soho
An endless void,
For pink ladies, double. Flowerless.
A number, no door.
To cross worlds of broken silences,
Infatuation vaporised. In these vacant times,
Time to turn inwards.
To see how those intervals crazed thee.
In dwellings of,
A reading from “Kaleidoscope”- selected poems at The BridgeJuly 15 2012, 14:48
A Poetic Review
By Greta Bellamacina (photos by Lily More)
In a shadowed corner of East London, The Bridge saloon bar curtained, entrapping the bizarre. Vaporising sound. Blinding out all but curiosity. A toy kingdom of furniture, framing a Venetian edge to what seems to be the entering of the wild fringes of fantasy. A poetry reading unfolds between friends. Interludes within words, settling in a cave of existence. A simple connection between beauty and the intrigue, increasing minds in thoughts and space. Antiquities with eyes and handles stare out from collecting corners. Words smile, and the distant memory of the world beyond seems as grey as the colour. Drinking coffee from Turkish china, philosophy and passion smokes the air. And the memory of ‘love before you love it’ chimes in the moment. Poised in elegant French fancy dresses from Twenty8Twelve depicts the poet’s corner.
Love Before You Love It
Inside the violet livings,
A night veined the fantastic. A first,
Pinned-up and plastic statued.
Expecting satin but found Paris in a room.
She the lady-love, hammocked
A fantasy in the surpassing
Chop of naked reality. Wet eyed
Love. And love before you love it,
Swell it up and fall, over.
Choke at the missing point. And swallow
Love. Love before you love it, a
Living. Turned and spined,
Into the centre point,
Piece of pineapples and pears.
Cast-cut of an exotica is only
Bold in spoken reality. Thoughts are not
Truths beyond the table. Fluent and dressed
She is gone.
Greta with fellow poet Daisy Walker
A London Excursion to the British SeasideJuly 09 2012, 22:07
Situated to the south west of London, an elegant blend of old England is merged along the sand-lit town of Bournemouth. A town draped in white laced cliffs. A mere two hours from the chaos of London, sits a simple romance. Almost in dust form an array of fishermen coat the pier, as the inhaling ocean fills the gaps in the sand. Cycling in twos, an off-beat magic retires along the costal roads. Pastel washed beach huts tease the eye, in a laidback row of colour. All this, when sheltering from the unpredictable weather known as the British rain. The old Print Room Teahouse, inspiring a nostalgic mix of the old music hall tradition. It beckons a taste of all things sweet and theatrical, yet understated and timeless. The tea and scones procuring warm hands to heart. Dressed in Twenty8twelve sundresses and knit, captures a postcard framing the British seaside.
This sawdust corner
Lyrical and sundry, pristine orange.
Is but a slide of the
Effect that the night felt.
She fell for a man,
Who filled her with sand.
Dressing her in a lemon skinned
Dress, casting currents
Alone on the beach side.
Repaired in the milk stoned
Shore. Free swinging sand sun
Caught in their shoes.
Hitching her hem, in to a
Sea flowering, water occurred, settling.
Cascades of outpouring silver.
Shelled and fanning,
An outlook for a beach hut.
Became a passing sigh.
Category: fashion art confrere Author Greta Bellamacina
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