102x10

[102x10]

[102x10]

[102x10]

[102x10]

original url http://www.geocities.com/likillustration/

last modified 2009-02-21 18:13:17

[102x10]

[102x10]

[102x10]

O is for Orchard. ABC de Babar. 1934.

Gallica

[102x10]

Non-horses of “Art of the Carousel” by Charlotte Dinger and William Manns

[102x10]

[102x10]

Constantin Terechkovitch (1902-1978), Composition, ca. 1963. Lithography, 27x21 cm.

[102x10]

Constantin Terechkovitch (1902-1978), Girl with a basket of fruit.

[102x10]

Rose of Versailles - Riyoko Ikeda

[102x10]

ベルサイユのばら (The Rose of Versailles) handkerchiefs by Anna Sui, 2022.

[102x10]

Tuulikki Pietilä at work, bent over a desk - Tove Jansson 

[102x10]

Ikeda Riyoko – Oniisama e

[102x10]

Bessie Love

Scanned from the book From Hollywood With Love 

[102x10]

"You doll-soul, not made by God, you soul, begged as a whim by some impetuous elf, you thing-soul exhaled laboriously by an idol and kept in being by us all, partly from anxiety and partly out of magnanimity, you soul from which nobody can completely detach himself, you soul never actually worn by anyone but always kept in storage, protected by all manner of old-fashioned fragrances (like furs in summer)—look, now the moths have got into you. You have been left untouched too long. Now you are shaken by a hand both cautious and bold—look, look, all the little moths are fluttering out of you, indescribably mortal, already beginning to take their leave at the very moment of birth.

So in the end we really destroyed you, doll-soul, when we thought we were cultivating you in our dolls. It must have been the larvae who were eating you from within; and this explains too why the dolls were so fat and why they could not be given more food.

Now this new timid generation escapes and flutters through our dark sensibility. Looking at these, one might describe them as tiny sighs, so faint that our ears are not attuned to hear them. They swarm and fade at the uttermost limit of our vision. For their only concern is to dwindle away. Sexless like our childhood dolls themselves, they experience no decline in their permanent sensuality, into which nothing flows and from which nothing escapes. It is as if they yearned for a beautiful flame, to throw themselves into it like moths (and then the momentary reek of their burning would fill us with limitless unfamiliar sensations). Thinking these thoughts and raising our eyes, we stand almost unnerved as we contemplate their waxen nature.”

Rilke, R. M. "Dolls. On the wax dolls of Lotte Pritzel."