#Angelo Litrico

[perfettamentechic]

Fausto Sarli

Maestro italiano dell'haute couture: Fausto Sarli #faustosarli #hautecouture #fashion #design #moda #sarlicouture #roccopalermo #weddingdress #cratoredistile #creatoredimoda #storiadelllamoda #perfettamentechic

Fausto Sarli è stato uno stilista d’alta moda italiano. “Scultore dell’alta moda“, uno degli stilisti più creativi dell’haute couture italiana, ma anche uno dei creatori di moda più schivi e riservati. Gli atelier Sarli si trovano a Roma, Milano, Napoli. Sarli nasce a Napoli, il 9 maggio del 1927, dove cresce a contatto con stoffe e tessuti presso l’Atelier materno ed eredita, sin da bambino…

[shinyshortsfetishworld]

24. Just a simple off the rack puffer. Nothing fancy, cheap, but it gets the job done.

Brand: Angelo Litrico Type: Colour: blue Period: 2010's

sharesome.com/ShinyShorts24/ (NSFW)

[garyovintage]

80's Angelo Litrico graffiti-print viscose s/s Shirt

淡い色味の中に夏っぽい雰囲気を感じる半袖シャツ。シンプルなパンツとうまく合わせて楽しんでいただけます。

[divatmarkak-hu]

Angelo Litrico

https://www.divatmarkak.hu/marka/angelo-litrico/

Angelo Litrico

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[7r0773r]

Portraits Without Frames by Lev Ozerov

VARLAM TIKHONOVICH SHALAMOV

Forward and to one side, like a knight on a chessboard, with a knapsack on his back, Varlam Shalamov plods on, battered by Kolyma. Lonely, almost sullen, he has the air of a sad Russian peasant, or scholar, or writer whom life has stung hard, whom life has pressed down on but not yet utterly crushed. Deep in his soul there is still strength, still the will to fight fate. His wrinkled face is a hieroglyph of all he has lived through and does not speak about. It’s a cold day. We go into a café. Not much to eat there, but at least it’s warm. “Varlam Tikhonovich, read me some new poems.” He turns one ear towards me. Without a word he takes off his rough, wind-battered knapsack. Inside it, a wooden spoon hobnobs with crusts of bread, notebooks, and documents— death, after all, can creep up on you any moment. He reads slowly, separating each word: each word ready to drop into the abyss. Getting the words out is easier with pauses for breath. “Thank you,” I say. “No, it’s for me  to thank you. Who nowadays asks anyone to read poems?” he says hoarsely, with feeling. “I’ve got an awful lot of them. How am I to choose?” He reads at random jumping from page to page, whatever catches his eye. Reading aloud, he warms up. “All right. Enough of that.” Someone brings coffee,  sausages, bread. Steam rises from our cups; steam rises from our plates: the renowned fragrance  of a Moscow people’s café. Shalamov tries not to eat  too quickly, not to show that he is very hungry. I don’t ask about Kolyma, and he doesn’t mention it: as if it hadn’t happened. As he eats the bread, he holds one hand  just below his chin. Crumbs fall into his palm. Shalamov eats them greedily, with particular relish. His long experience  of malnutrition is apparent. This mouth accustomed to hunger opens slowly, mistrustfully, almost unwillingly, as if in shame. Shalamov eats in silence, with tried and tested  deliberateness, with meaning, with pauses, and to me he seems  not to be thinking about food. What is Shalamov thinking about? How am I to know? He returns his notebook to his knapsack. Out we both go into the winter outside “It’s a cold day,” I say. “What do you mean?” he says. “It’s warm.”

***

MIKHAIL ZOSHCHENKO (excerpt)

How does it start— the mad day, the made life of a writer? What whim, what overwhelming force presses a pen into some poor fellow’s hand and leads him down through all of Dante’s  twisting circles?

***

PERETZ MARKISH

Once you’d seen him, you could say you’d seen Byron: honor, dignity, stature, a melancholy beauty. He’d raise his head and, with half-closed eyes, recite his poems as if he were singing. He wrote his own Childe Harold, his own Don Juan, his own Beppo. His sin, his one and only sin: that he wrote in Yiddish. He could express himself only in Yiddish. He could express  himself only in Yiddish. For this, he was jailed. For this alone, executed. Everyone knew, but it wasn’t done to say it out loud, to spell it out in black and white. It was said and written: He died. Just went and died. Just went and died, you see. Why get people upset?

In the province we call Volhynia lies a village we call Polonne. That’s his childhood, that’s his grandfather Shimshon-Ber, that’s his cheder. And after that, he was chorister, tutor, day laborer, worker at the vineyards,  army private, and office clerk. But he didn’t like calculating, he liked the immeasurable; on the flip side of banking documents poems began to appear. This dreamer’s distant gaze was focused not on the faces of clients but on the Galaxy. Later, he said in passing, “While you clutch a grass-blade, I hold up the Earth, the planet vast and blue. Immensity is what attracts me, but your grass-blade is a part of it too.”

We didn’t see each other for a long time. Then I saw him on a canvas by Alexander Labas. There, there he is— Markish, who was built for a long life, imagining his last hour. There is a touch of sunset in the dawn blaze. The light melts into a dark  that allows no return.

His widow is making inquiries about her husband, about his notebooks and manuscripts, confiscated when he was arrested. His widow walks down the long corridors of the seventh floor— corridors her soul had walked long before. She had endured much: a waiting room, a small window where relatives could hand in parcels of food and clothes for a prisoner. But now she is here by invitation. Courteous and charming, General Borisoglebsky addresses her: “You can probably guess why I’ve called you here.” “No. Tell me.” “I am able  to inform you that your husband has been rehabilitated.” “Where is he?” The general’s reply is ready and waiting, planed and polished: “He was executed  by enemies of the people.” And he offers Markish’s  widow a glass of water, also ready and waiting. “I want to read his case file.” “But you are not a lawyer.” “Where is my husband’s grave?” “He has none. . .”

More time passed. Another telephone call: “This is the KGB, finance department. It seems we owe you a little money.” “What do you mean? You’ve already returned me the money I tried to send to my husband but which he never received.” Pause. An in-breath. An out-breath. “We owe you for the teeth.” “What teeth?” “The gold crowns.” In a voice not her own, the widow  let out a wild scream. Neighbors ran out into the hallway  and caught her, as she collapsed in a faint. She was pale now and silent. While the telephone receiver on its twisted cord groped the wall, swinging like a pendulum, counting off our godforsaken time.

***

ARAM ILYICH KHACHATURIAN

Free time for whims is what makes age alluring; the aging Khachaturian grew to like touring: Rome—Paris—London—Berlin. He conducted, shook hands, represented the state, gave many an interview, enjoyed his fame through and through. Glory, after all is glorious; he lapped up bravos; the glitter of concert halls held him in thrall. Glad of each chance to further his own fame, he paid his respects to the pope and von Karajan, Stravinsky and Britten, the Dalai Lama, the Queen. He was photographed with them, or rather—they with him. Some photos were like ads, others more personal. Best of all were the snapshots  of handshakes: hands coupled, heads bent forward. In his Moscow apartment, with its sliding doors, he treated guests to Armenian wine, Mutakh cheese, a few grapes, and these photos— expecting rapt  exclamations. His albums, his apartment walls were adorned with every major celebrity. The only one missing  was Salvador Dalí. He must visit Dalí! Must see Dalí! Must be photographed with Dalí! Otherwise  both the collection and his own fame would be incomplete. Dalí gave his consent. A date was set for a meeting in a remote castle, At the time agreed, Khachaturian and his assistant, his assistant’s assistant, and his photographer, a friend and this friend’s daughter— a budding artist— approached the castle. A truly ancient castle! But in order to enter it you had to cross a wide swath of swampland. No other way: no footbridges, no guards to assist them. Mud splattered their dress shoes and best clothing; dispirited and exhausted, they crossed the swamp. The gates clanged open; they entered the empty vastness of the ancient castle, akin to a planetarium or crematorium. The silence continued. The guests stood in a stupor. This was insane! Suddenly, in all its wild frenzy, the “Sabre Dance” was unleashed. It was like bolts of lightning!  Crossed sabres rang out struck each other, recoiled, parted, flashed again, clanged again. It was spectacular! The music’s proud composer managed a smile: this was, after all, in his honor. He was distracted, however, by the sight of his Angelo Litrico shoes, gleaming new only the day before but now encrusted with mud. The “Sabre Dance” drew to an end. After a meaningful pause, Salvador Dalí himself appeared, riding a dark horse, dressed like Don Quixote, carrying a spear, of course, but without Sancho Panza. He rode three victory laps, respectfully stopping beside his shivering guests. Through half-closed eyes he looked down at everyone with benevolent condescension: a look full of meaning. Then, thrice brandishing his spear, he withdrew so abruptly that  the photographer was unable to recollect what he was meant to be doing there. A prerecorded message boomed a polite “Arrivederci”; the lights went out, the wayfarers exited. “Ouch!” groaned the photographer. “Argh!” growled the assistant. Khachaturian stayed silent. Once again they trudged through the surrounding mud, but I said enough about that as I described their approach to the castle of the ingenious Salvador.

It is said that this episode  cooled the composer’s ardor: he went less often on tour to dodgy venues.

[1122deactivated2211]

26th October 1957: Italian fashion designer Angelo Litrico is photographed cutting fabric for a jacket for Nikita Khrushchev. Khrushchev held the title of General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union from 1953 until 1964.

The designer, born the eldest of twelve children in Sicily in 1927, found international fame dressing political figures on both sides of the Cold War standoff.

[ragkidvintage]

Vintage 90's Grey Angelo Litrico 1/4 Zip Fleece Sweatshirt

https://www.ragkid.com/products/vintage-90s-grey-angelo-litrico-1-4-zip-fleece-sweatshirt-xl

[perfettamentechic]

13 marzo … ricordiamo …

13 marzo … ricordiamo … #semprevivineiricordi #nomidaricordare #personaggiimportanti #perfettamentechic

2022: William Hurt, attore statunitense. Sposò l’attrice Mary Beth Hurt divorziando l’anno successivo. Ebbe una relazione con Sandra Jennings, con la quale ebbe un figlio e con l’attrice Marlee Matlin.  Si risposò con Heidi Henderson che gli diede due figli. Ebbe un’altra figlia dall’attrice Sandrine Bonnaire. (n. 1950) 2021: Giovanni Gastel, è stato un fotografo italiano. Lavora per numerose…

[tokobajubatammetro]

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[mensweaterzar]

!@#&*^^ Angelo Litrico Black Sweater Jacket W/ Elbow Patch XL Men's https://ift.tt/2ECVWUW

[chiangmaisecondhand]

Angelo Litrico Duck Camo Jogger Pants 30-34×26 เหมาะสำหรับคนสูงไม่เกิน 174 ซม กางเกงเอวจั๊มมัดเชือก พิมพ์ลายพรางล่าเป็ด ผ้าหนานุ่ม ขาจั๊ม สภาพใหม่เหมือนออกช็อป แค่ลองใส่วัดขนาดครั้งเดียว สีสด ไม่มีตำหนิใดๆ เอวขยายได้ 30-34 นิ้ว ปลายขา จั๊ม 5-6.5 นิ้ว ต้นขา 11.5 เป้า 12 ขาในยาว 26 ยาวรวม 38 นิ้ว 640 รวมส่ง EMS #chiangmaisecondhand #tuckzchiangmaisecondhand #camopants #camojogger #duckcamo #duckcamopants #กางเกงวอร์มมือสอง #กางเกงวอร์ม #กางเกงลายพราง #กางเกงjogger #กางเกงjoggerpants #joggerpants #jogger #joggers https://www.instagram.com/p/COIR9iInwBg/?igshid=16ivk3li1ra3y

[perfettamentechic]

13 marzo … ricordiamo …

13 marzo … ricordiamo … #semprevivineiricordi #nomidaricordare #personaggiimportanti #perfettamentechic

2021: Giovanni Gastel, è stato un fotografo italiano. Lavora per numerose riviste di moda, tra cui: Vogue, Elle e Vanity Fair, collaborando anche con marchi di fama mondiale come Dior, Trussardi, Krizia, Tod’s e Versace, e non solo. (n. 1955) 2021: Raoul Casadei, è stato un musicista e compositore italiano, famoso per il contributo alla diffusione del ballo liscio.  (n. 1937) 2021: Marvin Hagler,…

[herrenjeande]

ANGELO LITRICO STRAIGHT LEG Jeans Blau W32 L32 **NEU** https://ift.tt/2Bjux8y

[menpoloshirtday]

^!^ ANGELO LITRICO GRAY COTTON PATCHED MESH POLO SHIRT SIZE XL A54-22 https://ift.tt/3frc9tC

[sartorialitrico]

Looking aheads from this times with an eye to its #roots, #SartoriaLitrico would inspire your dream for the future by its historical archives rich of beauty, declared in 2009 by italian Ministry of Fine Arts and Culture of national important interest, close to the milestone of its 70 years history. Founded in Rome in 1951 by Master Tailor Angelo Litrico, Sartoria Litrico swiftly become worldwide sinonimous of the top expression of the tailor made italian fashion. #BespokeLegends #LuxuryIsThePleasureOfChoice https://www.instagram.com/p/B_Af-2tl-7x/?igshid=13j0bw7fub5a9