Je t'aime, moi non plus...
"In 1968 Gainsbourg had written "Je t'aime, moi non plus", an explicitly erotic song which he had recorded with Brigitte Bardot. After the pair's relationship had ended, Bardot begged Gainsbourg not to release the recording as a single and Gainsbourg, the perfect gentleman, respected her wishes. However, in 1969 Jane recorded the notorious song as a duet with Gainsbourg and it appeared on the pair's joint album "Jane Birkin Serge Gainsbourg".
When "Je t'aime moi non plus" was released as a single later that year it caused an absolute scandal. Indeed, Gainsbourg's erotic lyrics and Jane's passionate whispering totally outraged public opinion. The international press attacked the song's "lewd" message, radios banned it from their playlists and the Vatican went so far as to issue a statement condemning the immoral nature of the song. In short, "Je t'aime moi non plus" benefited from a huge amount of free publicity and rocketed straight to the top of the charts, selling around a million copies in the space of just a few months. Needless to say, Gainsbourg and Birkin became the most scandalous couple of the year and their relationship became the subject of intense media scrutiny."
"Cat Power and Karen Elson performed an English-language version - entitled I love you (me either) for the 2005 tribute album Monsieur Gainsbourg Revisited."
31 October, 2009
30 October, 2009
27 October, 2009
26 October, 2009
Les arts sombres... or anthropomorphic treasures?
Last year, artist Andrea Mastrovito was commissioned to revamp the Dior Homme flagship store in Paris, and he did so with 9000 black butterflies. Yes, 9000! Suspended from ceilings, attached to walls... All real, all black. I stumbled upon this, because of something I've learned about myself in the past year. Something creepy, something odd, something apt to discuss around Halloween, and something ever so sliightly embarrassing...
Taxidermy. And specifically, my predilection for it.
When I was around 12 years old, I received for my birthday- three preserved and framed butterflies. I was totally fascinated. It didn't lead to sudden bug chasing, or a career in entomology; but it did pique a long-held interest in, and soft spot for, the postmortem preservation of animals.
Then, on June 20th of last year, my beloved angel puppy, Bruno died.
After the initial shock a sudden calm swept over me when I realized that, though I had lost my cuddly, snorty, precious little friend- I could still keep some part of him around...
TAXIDERMY!
This made perfect sense to me, but as I was soon to learn all too well- it does not sit well with most people. Disagreement and disgust was the general response... Friends were appalled. Taxidermists from California to Nebraska (yes, I was determined), methodically turned me down with the industry-standard "We don't do pets." and "People get weird with their pets, too much emotion involved- no one will do 'em." Finally, FINALLY after much pestering, I was referred to a pro-pet taxidermist in Colorado. With a $2,800 price tag, a 14 month wait-list, and additional cold-storage facility fees- my hopes of Bruno eternally curled up peacefully in the living room went up in smoke. It was a sad, sad, day. Somehow even through countless rejections and despite the local consensus, I believed that taxidermy would be the saving grace. It would soften the blow of losing him, and make it a tiny bit bearable. A gentle fade from him, rather than the vicious tug that had torn him away. Now this last resort too, was gone. It was difficult to come to terms with, and to be perfectly honest- I didn't. With time certainly NOT on my side, I started researching taxidermy. Thinking, how hard can it really be? I nonchalantly phoned taxidermists in my area inquiring about apprenticeships.
"Oh nooo, sir, I'm just interested in learning to mount hunting kills..."
Uh huh.
"I'm happy to work for free..."
Wow.
"I can come in tomorrow! And I can practice on uhhh.... my mom's dead dog."
Oh my God, am I really saying this???
"You know, I wasn't attached to him- so you don't have to worry about the whole "emotional attachment" thing."
Jesus.
Needless to say, there were no takers. My mother, always the trouper with not a squeamish bone in her body- reluctantly offered to help if it was something I "absolutely need[ed] to do". This, the woman who once saved a mare by cutting apart and removing a dead, full-term foal with her bare hands... But that's another blog altogether... We discussed chemicals, decomposition, organ-removal, curing and time-frames... I could do it. Who needed those jerk, taxidermists and their pet-owner prejudice?! I'd show them! And who cared about people's black hearts and their disdain... I wasn't insane! I knew it wouldn't bring him back! Why not?!
Mom was onboard, I'd found a book on it... I was ready.
But then I realized something... He was perfect. Here was my perfect little guy... my beautiful bundle of pure love and joy, who I had enjoyed, admired, scolded, and lavished upon with all my heart from the moment I saw him at 8 weeks old- fresh off a plane from Sydney. A top-heavy puppy, who fell over when he scratched with his hind legs, and who inexplicably loved broccoli and dried bananas. We'd travelled over an ocean together, and many miles since. He smiled when he was excited and peed in the wrong places when he was mad. He loved having his ears cleaned and liked to sleep splayed out flat on the kitchen floor like a squished spider. He was all nose and no nose at the same time. He'd been compared to pigs, goats, monkeys, and a half-dozen breeds of dogs other than what he was. He had been Batman for Halloween and an angel for the Christmas card... and no amount of taxidermy could ever capture any tiny bit of that. Not the best taxidermists in the world, and certainly not me. At that moment, I agreed with them. The jerks... At that moment I knew that there was too much emotion to cut him apart and try to put him back together again for posterity, or my own morbid-reluctance to let him go.
We buried him under a flower bed, on a pretty little slope, over a creek on the ranch I'd played on as a child. With a blankie and a book...
"My French love affair", because he was.
A few months later, a fantastic article by Olga of Greece, was printed in Vanity Fair- profiling her appreciation for Deyrolles, the Parisian Taxidermy house and the fire that nearly destroyed its incomparable legacy. It was a fresh reminder of the roller coaster I'd gone on after Bruno's death, but rather than opening a wound, it cemented my own appreciation for the art of taxidermy. The roller coaster ride had taught me that sometimes it's best not to get what we want, and also that despite others' opinions- yes, I really do enjoy stuffed animals (of the realistic variety). Someday, I might even be ready to own one- but it will be strictly art; something I like, not someone I loved. Certainly not a pet, and certainly not my best friend (Amber, you can breathe a sigh of relief). ;)
Taxidermy. And specifically, my predilection for it.
When I was around 12 years old, I received for my birthday- three preserved and framed butterflies. I was totally fascinated. It didn't lead to sudden bug chasing, or a career in entomology; but it did pique a long-held interest in, and soft spot for, the postmortem preservation of animals.
Then, on June 20th of last year, my beloved angel puppy, Bruno died.
After the initial shock a sudden calm swept over me when I realized that, though I had lost my cuddly, snorty, precious little friend- I could still keep some part of him around...
TAXIDERMY!
This made perfect sense to me, but as I was soon to learn all too well- it does not sit well with most people. Disagreement and disgust was the general response... Friends were appalled. Taxidermists from California to Nebraska (yes, I was determined), methodically turned me down with the industry-standard "We don't do pets." and "People get weird with their pets, too much emotion involved- no one will do 'em." Finally, FINALLY after much pestering, I was referred to a pro-pet taxidermist in Colorado. With a $2,800 price tag, a 14 month wait-list, and additional cold-storage facility fees- my hopes of Bruno eternally curled up peacefully in the living room went up in smoke. It was a sad, sad, day. Somehow even through countless rejections and despite the local consensus, I believed that taxidermy would be the saving grace. It would soften the blow of losing him, and make it a tiny bit bearable. A gentle fade from him, rather than the vicious tug that had torn him away. Now this last resort too, was gone. It was difficult to come to terms with, and to be perfectly honest- I didn't. With time certainly NOT on my side, I started researching taxidermy. Thinking, how hard can it really be? I nonchalantly phoned taxidermists in my area inquiring about apprenticeships.
"Oh nooo, sir, I'm just interested in learning to mount hunting kills..."
Uh huh.
"I'm happy to work for free..."
Wow.
"I can come in tomorrow! And I can practice on uhhh.... my mom's dead dog."
Oh my God, am I really saying this???
"You know, I wasn't attached to him- so you don't have to worry about the whole "emotional attachment" thing."
Jesus.
Needless to say, there were no takers. My mother, always the trouper with not a squeamish bone in her body- reluctantly offered to help if it was something I "absolutely need[ed] to do". This, the woman who once saved a mare by cutting apart and removing a dead, full-term foal with her bare hands... But that's another blog altogether... We discussed chemicals, decomposition, organ-removal, curing and time-frames... I could do it. Who needed those jerk, taxidermists and their pet-owner prejudice?! I'd show them! And who cared about people's black hearts and their disdain... I wasn't insane! I knew it wouldn't bring him back! Why not?!
Mom was onboard, I'd found a book on it... I was ready.
But then I realized something... He was perfect. Here was my perfect little guy... my beautiful bundle of pure love and joy, who I had enjoyed, admired, scolded, and lavished upon with all my heart from the moment I saw him at 8 weeks old- fresh off a plane from Sydney. A top-heavy puppy, who fell over when he scratched with his hind legs, and who inexplicably loved broccoli and dried bananas. We'd travelled over an ocean together, and many miles since. He smiled when he was excited and peed in the wrong places when he was mad. He loved having his ears cleaned and liked to sleep splayed out flat on the kitchen floor like a squished spider. He was all nose and no nose at the same time. He'd been compared to pigs, goats, monkeys, and a half-dozen breeds of dogs other than what he was. He had been Batman for Halloween and an angel for the Christmas card... and no amount of taxidermy could ever capture any tiny bit of that. Not the best taxidermists in the world, and certainly not me. At that moment, I agreed with them. The jerks... At that moment I knew that there was too much emotion to cut him apart and try to put him back together again for posterity, or my own morbid-reluctance to let him go.
We buried him under a flower bed, on a pretty little slope, over a creek on the ranch I'd played on as a child. With a blankie and a book...
"My French love affair", because he was.
A few months later, a fantastic article by Olga of Greece, was printed in Vanity Fair- profiling her appreciation for Deyrolles, the Parisian Taxidermy house and the fire that nearly destroyed its incomparable legacy. It was a fresh reminder of the roller coaster I'd gone on after Bruno's death, but rather than opening a wound, it cemented my own appreciation for the art of taxidermy. The roller coaster ride had taught me that sometimes it's best not to get what we want, and also that despite others' opinions- yes, I really do enjoy stuffed animals (of the realistic variety). Someday, I might even be ready to own one- but it will be strictly art; something I like, not someone I loved. Certainly not a pet, and certainly not my best friend (Amber, you can breathe a sigh of relief). ;)
24 October, 2009
22 October, 2009
06 October, 2009
05 October, 2009
01 October, 2009
Pale blue dot...
"....you see a dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. ...every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there - on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. ... Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known."-Carl Sagan
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