il pleut étoiles filantes...

 There are always these moments when you realize: Damn no one told me that or prepared me for this kind of situation.

So I stand there in the middle of this colourful mess, that life is most of the time unprepared and a little naiv and in the end it may not be perfect, but alright.

 Wouldn't it be simpler just to teach children right from the start that life is absurd and weird and there is really nothing that can prepare you for all of the things that are thrown at you,

but what would we be without our fairytales and strange dreams.

What would we be without cottoncandychildhoodmemories and sugar rush weeks?

Probably more bitter than sweet.

I have finally concluded, maybe that's what it is about:

there's a lot of despair, nostalgia and weirdness, but also the odd moments of beauty, where time is no longer the same, where especially music - more than any other form of art -  can create a sort of interlude in time, an elsewhere that comes to us while listening to a melody or tune.

photography corinna kern and martin munkácsi

"winterwunderkerzen"

Even in Paris winter is starting now. People are wrapped in fluffy scrafs and coats and you can buy knitted clothes everywhere.

  I prefer winter over all the other seasons right now, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape, the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. 

Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show yet, but there is a promise somewhere.

I can't wait to see my breath raising in little white clouds in front of me or living on hot tea with indian flavours.

Go scating on ice some place near and discover new winter soundtracks and books.

Somebody once told me

"The colour of springtime is in the flowers, the colour of winter is in the imagination."

and she is right.

 photography by Corinna Kern

studying the art of getting by...

"Night is leaving and I stand at the window and I watch. Orange and pink streaks sail across the blue of the sky, large birds silhouette themselves against the red of the rising sun, clouds inch their way toward me. I can feel my heart beating and I can feel the weight of life beginning to drop and I realize why dawn is called mourning. I climb into bed and I climb under the covers and I close my eyes and I try to remember."

-a million little pieces-

James Frey

photography by Jack Stone , Adolph de Meyer, Audrey Leighton Rogers,  a boy 
and me