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anhed-nia · 3 months

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R.O.T.O.R. -- AGAIN!

Even ripoffs can be beautiful.

I am writing about R.O.T.O.R., neither for the first time nor the last, because something new strikes me about this startling movie every time I see it. Its amazing premise, which amply rips off THE TERMINATOR and JUDGE DREDD (but not ROBOCOP, oddly, which began shooting after R.O.T.OR., also in Dallas) provides fertile ground for all sorts of useful interpretation. This time I was most struck by the fact that R.O.T.O.R. is all about jobs and going to work.

The story concerns "police scientist" Captain Coldyron (cold-iron) who has invented the Robotic Officer Tactical Operations Research/Reserve, a T-800 type of android made out of a "self-teaching alloy" that can kick anybody's ass. Coldyron resigns in a huff when his boss conspires with local politicians to rush the lawbot to market, and the project races forward dysfunctionally until R.O.T.O.R. inevitably busts lose and starts killing people for minor mischief. Coldyron hooks up with the robot's coauthor Dr. Steel (female bodybuilder Jayne Smith who is like something out of Crying Freeman, which I mean as the highest compliment) to hunt their creation down and destroy it.

Coldyron is played by Richard Gesswein, who was also created in a lab.

That might sound pretty action-packed, but in execution R.O.T.O.R. is heavily focused on the drudgery of daily life. Enormous amounts of time are spent walking through parking lots, traversing the atria of hotels, finding parking, being seated in restaurants, and most of all, spending hours and hours at work, making countless phone calls. You have never seen so many people on the phone in a movie in your entire life. There's work phones, home phones, payphones, and even CB radios. At times it feels as if you may never see more than one person on the same set again. On the phones, people say things to each other that have already been said earlier in the movie if not earlier in the same scene, if not earlier in the same monologue. In the scene where Coldyron learns that R.O.T.O.R. has gone rogue, he delivers this incredible screed during one of THREE calls that he makes in a row:

"Its last program was prime directive... Prime directive to our ROTOR unit is judge and execute. It stops felons, judges the crime, and executes sentence. Justice served, COD. You call the Senator and you tell him ROTOR walked through a busload of nuns to get to a jaywalker, with malice towards no one. It won't stop. It wasn't ready. Its brain functions are incomplete. It can't think twice, can't reason, can't change its prime directive. It's like a chainsaw set on frappe..."

It begins to feel as if he will never stop reiterating whatever he (and others) just said, and this is not the only such example.

Most of these calls, like all of the activity in the movie, are focused on jobs. Coldyron calls his girlfriend first thing in the morning to tell her that he is getting ready for work, and to ask her if she is also getting ready to go to work at her own job. He promises that "if you're a good girl and go to work" then he will grill steaks at her house later. When he goes out to buy charcoal for the reward steaks he stumbles upon two creeps robbing the store and trying to take a hostage--a woman who stops the crime with several karate kicks, to whom he says "Hey lady, you want a job?" Meanwhile at the police robot lab, a scientist slaves away while complaining about the impossible new R.O.T.O.R. deadline as the comic relief security bot whines, sighs, and says "One of these days I'm gonna quit this job!" (Later on he actually does) Once R.O.T.O.R. has escaped we meet the Linda Hamilton of this movie (Margaret Trigg), who is having a vicious fight in the car with her fiance because she wants to get a job; the fiance wants to forgo the "barbaric ritual" of the wedding and just be automatically married to a woman who will not embarrass him by getting a job. Finally he concedes, "Elope with me tonight and I'll help you get a job after the honeymoon," but it's too late for all that because he's speeding and about to get killed by R.O.T.O.R.

For extra job-related realism there is workplace harassment in the form of a guy who tries to fuck his colleague by describing ancient execution methods and who calls her a white supremacist for turning him down (he says he's Native American, she says he's not, I don't know the right answer because this is the actor's only credit--and actually he's uncredited for the role, though he is acknowledged for composing the movie's primitive synth soundtrack which I kind of enjoy). It's also worth mentioning that the comedy droid is a real robot with a job, according to iMDB (sadly there is not a wealth of info on this movie):

"Willard the Robot is played by APD2, a robot purchased in 1986 by the police department of the Town of Addison, a northern suburb of Dallas, for $17,750 (approximately $41,000 in 2018 dollars). APD2/Willard performed public relations duties and was tapped to lead the Christmas parade in Addison that year. His contributions to actual law enforcement and his subsequent whereabouts are unknown. "As quoted from 'theoldrobots' website; 'Officer Willi from 1985 - This 21st Century Robotics robot was operated by remote control, showed videos about public safety, and was used in teaching important safety topics such as stranger awareness, traffic safety, and much more..'"

Coldyron is actually a very good prototype of the modern tech mogul who has way too much time on his hands and whose existence is mainly composed of heroic fantasies about himself, whether he is molding the future face of law enforcement, or dicking around on his enormous ranch where he lamely practices his lasso technique on tree stumps before blowing them up with dynamite. At the office he demands "hydrogenated wheat germ and dessicated liver" which boosts his handball game, and I thought, jesus christ I think I've worked for this guy. Coldyron is *I think* the hero of this movie but I'm never sure how much you're really supposed to like him; when his girlfriend sends him out for charcoal so he can cook her reward steaks, he goes to a mini mart and just starts looking for trouble, harassing minorities and flashing his gun. It's like, this is the reason there are loitering laws, but naturally they don't apply when you're a rich cop.

Someone please make these stickers!

The best way to understand R.O.T.O.R. is through the knowledge that director and co-writer Cullen Blaine worked on a variety of popular cartoon shows during what they call "the dark age of animation". First of all, there are scenes in this movie whose aesthetic, humor, and internal logic only begin to make sense if you imagine them taking place in an episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles--and actually much if not all of the dialog was dubbed by a whole other cast due to problems with getting the stars back for ADR, creating a whole other layer of literal cartoonishness. But the period in which Cullen Blaine created R.O.T.O.R. and designed many children's shows was dominated by what's called "limited animation" which I almost don't even have to describe. It's all in the name, the goal was to do things as cheaply as possible while turning out dozens of episodes per season. Part of the problem was, as with all things, Ronald Reagan, whose deregulation activities defanged measures to make sure children's programming was not just a steady stream of hard sell marketing. Under Reagan, the requirement for some portion of programs to be educational became so easy to meet and manipulate that animation studios were compelled to crank out zillions of Trojan horse toy ads with glib moral declarations tacked on. (I think I understand this correctly, I'm sure @bogleech has better material on the subject) Animators are a historically abused lot with a sad history of failed strikes, and I'm just extrapolating here, but I bet it's reasonable to guess that R.O.T.O.R. reflects the filmmaker's experiences in the grueling cartoon mines. The brutal sacrifice of quality to speed, the hostile work environments, and the endless, redundant calls and meetings, all smack of a script by someone who has had a very bad job.

"We've all got plenty of time to figure out what this means to each one of us," Coldyron sagely concludes at the end of his misadventure. Obviously I am still working on what it means to me, since this is the fourth or fifth time I've seen this movie and (at least?) the second time I'm writing about it. I will say that while the film I have just described sounds intolerably boring--I mean, a whole movie about rat race drudgery with the fewest and least convincing action sequences ever--but believe me, it is not boring. R.O.T.O.R. is constantly surprising and fascinating, with weirdly vivid imagery and pages and pages of the strangest dialog you will hear anywhere. Just watch the movie and let it shock you. You'll have plenty of time to figure out what it means to you later.

#not blogtober #r.o.t.o.r.#sci-fi #science fiction #action #cullen blaine #richard gesswein #jayne smith #margaret trigg

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liketwoswansinbalance · 30 days

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Rhian, drop your morning/night routine!

Rhian: In the morning, I don't "wake up" like most do. Instead, I simply get out of bed since I'm usually up all night attempting to fall asleep. Repose rarely overtakes me, and my mind's always reeling. I may have to commission a sleeping draught from a witch one day.

At this stage of the morning, Rafal is usually still out cold, and it doesn't matter how loud I am, so I listen to the morning Kingdom Council spellcast reports from a mirror I've ensorcelled at full volume and review the Putsi market trends as I start on my routine.

The Gillikin Gazette's updates about its ongoing cathedral construction are my favorites though—its flying buttresses rival Camelot's dated, heavier Romanesque designs. I only manage to catch those reports on Saturdays though since I have to be out of the tower and on my way at an early hour most days. Oh, and I tend to cast a spell, so my bed makes itself while I busy myself with more important tasks.

Firstly, I need my ermine slippers and silk dressing gown. I shower and usually start with a facial, rosewater, or whichever magical cure-all I'm currently using to remove my under-eye shadows with.

Though, Rafal's been a bother about the cucumbers I go through. He thinks I'll drain the Woods' supply and that he won't have any left for his sandwiches. Mind you, that isn't true in the least.

I use charcoal imported from Akgul to remove impurities of the skin, and that's been rather effective as of late. I also ice my pores, page through Maxine's progress reports, and keep tabs on the lackadaisical performers. Tracking's very important at a School like ours, you know.

On some occasions, I do my own makeup, but really, it seems to me that only the Evergirls care if they notice at all. These days, I've been fond of whipped beetroot tinctures and orchid cologne. Then, I arrange my hair, dress suitably for the day's activities in whichever clothes I pressed the night before, and polish my boots. I polish Rafal's too. He doesn't notice or care—thinks we're immune to disease and scrutiny—but he's missing the point. It's about image, of course. And I worry that he'll bring bird mites from his Stymphs indoors, and that would not only be unseemly for a School Master, but a disaster of inordinate proportions, even if our health isn't at risk. Think of the parent complaints we'd receive, if we had an infestation. The picket-lines would never end!

When I head out, Rafal's almost always still asleep, so I bring us back breakfast, and wake him then.

Well, I say "wake him," but rousing him isn't as simple as I've likely led you to believe. By now, it's turned into an awfully elaborate burlesque. I switch mirror channels to the Jaunt Jolie Music Hall's Cricket and Brass orchestra production of the day. If that fails, I bang a ladle on our breakfast's silver cloche over him. And if all else fails, I shout "FIRE," "INVASION," or even "PIRATES" if I'm desperate and running late, and that does the trick. I still haven't figured out if he's been deluding me though, or if it's his dreams that leave him with those horrid little grins.

Yet, this particular song-and-dance of sorts has been more of a recent development. His clarion-belled alarm clock from Geppetto's broke last month, and he hasn't had the time to replace it. The flight's a day's trip, and this new class of Nevers cannot be left alone for more than a day because he's sure there'll be either an outbreak of some pox or of some general pandemonium since he doesn't think I'm capable of maintaining order. I'm more than capable in truth.

We eat then, he in his pajama shorts and shirt and black stockings with the runs I chastise him about throwing out everyday, and me in my typical smart attire.

At the end, I wash up, sit, and wait for him to set the dishes to scrubbing themselves, comb his hair, and dress. After that, we split off to our respective sides for the day, and I see him again at dusk.

"Bye." or "Morning, brother." is as talkative as he gets at this time of day before he vanishes into the Tunnel of Trees or crosses the Halfway Bridge into the smog, unless he has a storybook victory to congratulate himself over or another point to bolster his side of an argument with—arguments I naively believed we'd already put to bed the night before.

After a full day of overseeing classes, Rafal legs it over the window sill when he returns and showers immediately when he gets back. Then, he grades papers and exams. On days when he's exhausted by puppeteering mock battle raids or Storian knows what he subjects those poor children to, he passes out in bed fully-clothed without showering, and showers in the morning.

All the while, I perform my nightly skin- and hair care routines, snuff out the candles, and get in bed with an eye mask, in my attempt to get a good night's sleep, often sooner than he goes to bed because he reads news updates and whatever musty tome he's tearing through late into the night.

Sometimes, I wake in the middle of a night terror and realize he's still up marking or reading or scheming, so I confiscate the candles at that point and force him to sleep. Rarely does he listen, and I've stopped bothering most of the time as he reads by the light of his fingerglow instead, contrary to all sound advice. He doesn't view sleep as necessary seeing as the Storian sustains us, but he has no sleep troubles, so I suppose that's an easy conclusion to form if you're him. The latest remedy I've resorted to is tucking lavender into my pillowcase, but I've had not a drop of luck.

#school for good and evil #rise of the school for good and evil #rhian #rhian mistral #rafal #rafal mistral #sge #sfgae #the school for good and evil #tsfgae #rotsge #rotsfgae #my post #ask #dialogue #morning routine #night routine #insomnia #insomniac

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aishavass · 11 months

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#adroit market research #activated charcoal market #water treatment #air purification

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adroit--2022 · 1 year

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#adroit market research #activated charcoal market #water treatment #air purification

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maryharrisk5 · 2 years

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Strengthening economic conditions in key countries including China and India, coupled with the rapidly industrialization is considered to trigger the demand in the future

#adroit market research #activated charcoal market #water treatment #air purification

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evonnebaker · 2 years

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Strengthening economic conditions in key countries including China and India, coupled with the rapidly industrialization is considered to trigger the demand in the future

#adroit market research #activated charcoal market #water treatment #air purification

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i-am-alucard · 2 months

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[bath] - Sender catches receiver bathing. - lapetitemxrt

Once in a great while, Alucard would allow himself the pleasure to enjoy a "mundane" activity. Truth be told, this particular one was frivolous at best, if not entirely useless. He could absorb blood, flesh, and shattered bone. Common day-to-day filth was incredibly easy to purge from his form. Bathing, therefore, was a luxury that he never felt he had to indulge in. He was curious why his fledgeling continued to do so, citing the fact that she could avoid the whole bothersome thing. Naturally, he figured that she was clutching to some aspect of her human form. What he wasn't prepared for was for her to say that it was "self-care." What the hell was self-care? He felt annoyed as she looked at him with pity and explained the concept. He retorted that it was a waste of his time, prompting Seras to taunt him. Smelly old bat, his immortal ass. At least she was showing she had spine. His thoughts traveled to the iron tub and the boiling water it contained. Faint memories from...back then came forward. His concubines approaching him with delight, arms full of market finds and new scents they wished added to his bath. He glanced at the red ball- a bath bomb? -in his hands and read the label: "Bloodbath." His lips quirked in amusement before he dropped it unceremoniously into the water. The ball fizzed and rolled in the water, the dyed powder releasing to color the water a beautiful shade of wine-red. Dehydrated rose petals sprung back to life, mixing with the red water and shimmering gold dust. Surprisingly, the scent was pleasant. Rose, chiefly, as well as cinnamon, honey, and charcoal. His clothes dissipated before he stepped into the tub. As he sank in, the warm water began to soothe his cold flesh, prompting a small sigh from him. This did feel quite nice, loathe as was to admit it. A creak of the bathroom's oak door made him raise his head. His lips pulled into a charming smile when he saw his Angel standing in the doorframe. "Dirty old man," he teased affectionately. "A moment sooner and you would have seen me au unnatural."

#lapetitemxrt #alucard #walter dornez #angel of death

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sramfact · 2 years

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The global activated carbon filters market growth is estimated at USD 267 Million in 2020 and is projected to reach USD 330 Million by 2025, at a CAGR of 4.4%, between 2020 and 2025. Activated carbon filters are used to remove organic compounds, and free chlorine from water to make it suitable for drinking and reuse in manufacturing processes or to discharge in water bodies. They are used to remove organic elements, such as humic acid and fulvic acid from potable water to prevent the formation of trihalomethanes, a class of carcinogens. They are also used for air/gas filtration in various industries. The filter media, which is used in the filtration process is activated carbon, also known as activated charcoal. Activated carbon is a form of carbon that removes organic compounds from liquids and gases by a process known as “adsorption”. It is extremely porous and thus has a very large surface area available for adsorption.

The key players in the activated carbon filters market are TIGG LLC (US), Puragen Activated Carbons (US), Cabot corporation (US), Westech Engineering (US), Kuraray Co. Ltd. (Japan), Lenntech B.V. (The Netherlands), Donau Carbon Gmbh (Germany), General Carbon Corporation (US), Sereco SR.L. (Italy), Carbtrol Corp (US). The activated carbon filters market report analyzes the key growth strategies adopted by the leading market players, between 2016 and 2019, which include expansions, new product developments, and collaborations.

TIGG LLC (US) is one of the leading players in the activated carbon filters market and a subsidiary of Newterra Ltd. The company offers a wide range of standard and custom made granular activated carbon adsorption and filtration systems. It provides filtration equipment for liquid and vapor treatment solutions for industrial manufacturing, municipal water treatment, air filtration, water filtration, environmental remediation application, and activated carbon & media exchange services. It is fully certified with ASME code shop and has both National R and ASME U stamp certifications.

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otakusapien · 1 year

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I try not to be too much of a jerk about about stuff with activated charcoal, particularly toward the min wage people selling it just trying to do their job, but I still think about the time I browsed a health juice stand at a farmers market and told my mom, "Oh, I def can't have the grapefruit or activated charcoal juice, they're not good when you're on meds, it would make mine stop working" and the girl selling it immediately went, "UM, it actually flushes your body of toxins🙄"

YEAH, LIKE MY BIRTH CONTROL

#I know she probably has an automatic response to ppl nay saying it at this point #But I specifically mentioned the medication thing as my reason for avoiding it #I wasn't even talking to her

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wonderlanddreamer · 3 months

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Ao3

Chapter 2: Florence continues to snoop in Peaky Blinders territory and John ups his intimidation tactics.

TW - Slight dubcon at the end. NO SMUT.

Masterlist here.

Florence awoke to the soft, diffused light filtering through the worn lace curtains of her bedroom. The hues of dawn cast gentle shadows across the room, illuminating the organised chaos that was her personal sanctuary. Her petite frame rose from the bed, the crisp linen sheets falling away to reveal her nightgown, a simple but elegant garment that spoke volumes about her understated grace.

She stretched, her long, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. The braid she had worn to bed had come loose during the night. Bright blue eyes, framed by oversized circular glasses, flickered to the mirror on her vanity.

Her house, small and quaint, was a perfect display of her solitary life. Papers were strewn across the wooden floor, remnants of late-night research sessions and hurried mornings. Books were piled high on every available surface, their spines cracked and pages dog-eared, evidence of her voracious reading habits. Articles and photographs adorned the walls, a collage of her life's work and passions. In every corner, plants thrived, their vibrant greenery adding a touch of life and colour to the otherwise monochromatic palette of ink and paper.

Florence moved through the space with a quiet confidence, her steps light yet purposeful, as if each movement was part of a well-choreographed dance.

She pulled on a simple white blouse, its fabric soft against her skin, paired with a charcoal grey skirt that fell just below her knees. The ensemble was practical yet stylish, embodying the balance she strived for. Florence needed to blend into the background when necessary, yet command respect in the moments that mattered most.

Her fingers worked deftly, fastening the small, delicate buttons of her blouse with a ease. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled black pumps, the kind that allowed for quick movement but still gave her an air of professionalism. Her accessories were minimal: a watch with a leather band, a simple silver necklace, and a pair of stud earrings that glinted subtly in the sunlight.

Florence paused in front of the full-length mirror. She adjusted her glasses, the frames dark and sturdy, framing her intelligent eyes. She smoothed her braid, ensuring that not a single strand was out of place.

She made her way to the kitchen, where her favourite china cup awaited her, ready for her morning tea. The aroma filled the air as she poured herself a cup, savouring the warmth and comfort it provided. Her eyes scanned the morning newspaper, but her mind was already racing ahead to the day's agenda. She was undeterred by John Shelby's threat; if anything, it had only strengthened her resolve. She was ready to dig deeper, to uncover the truths buried beneath layers of intimidation and corruption.

With a final sip of tea, Florence gathered her notes and tucked them into her satchel. The weight of her work rested on her shoulders, but it was a burden she bore with pride. She paused at the door, taking a deep breath before stepping out into the bustling streets of Birmingham. The world outside was rife with danger and intrigue, but Florence was ready to face it head-on. She was a force to be reckoned with, a beacon of truth in a city shrouded in shadows.

The morning air in Birmingham was crisp and tinged with the scent of coal and industry as Florence stepped out onto the cobbled streets. The city was already alive with activity, the relentless hum of machinery mingling with the distant clatter of horse-drawn carriages and the murmurs of early risers.

Florence navigated the narrow alleyways and bustling thoroughfares with the ease of someone who had spent years learning the city's intricate rhythms. Her bright eyes, sharp and observant, caught every detail: the hurried steps of labourers, the haggling of market vendors, the furtive glances exchanged between men in dark overcoats. Each interaction, each whispered word, was a potential clue.

Her first stop was the local bakery, a modest establishment run by Mrs. Whitaker, a stout woman with a kind face and flour-dusted hands. The bakery was a hub of local gossip, a place where news and rumours mingled as freely as the scent of freshly baked bread.

"Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker," Florence greeted, her voice warm and sincere.

"Ah, Miss Fletcher! Good morning to you," Mrs. Whitaker replied, her eyes crinkling with a smile. "What can I do for you today?"

"Just a loaf of your finest, please. And perhaps, if you have a moment, any news from around Small Heath?" Florence asked, her tone casual but her eyes keenly observant.

Mrs. Whitaker's expression shifted subtly, a flicker of hesitation crossing her features. "Well, there's always something, isn't there? Heard there's been some trouble with the Peaky Blinders again. Nasty business, that lot."

Florence nodded, her mind filing away the information. "Anything specific?"

"Just whispers, really. Some say they're planning something big, but who knows with those boys? Best to keep your head down and stay out of their way," Mrs. Whitaker advised, handing over the loaf.

"Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker. Always a pleasure," Florence said, slipping the bread into her satchel and giving a parting smile before stepping back into the street.

Her next destination was the local pub, The Garrison, a known haunt for the Peaky Blinders. As she approached, she adjusted her glasses and took a deep breath, readying herself for the tension that always hung thick in the air around the place.

Florence entered The Garrison, the familiar hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air. The pub was a sanctuary of sorts for the locals of Small Heath, a place where deals were made and secrets exchanged. The dim lighting cast shadows across the room, giving it an aura of mystery that matched the reputation of its most famous patrons, the Shelby family.

Harry, the bartender, stood behind the counter, his bald head and kind eyes a stark contrast to the rough crowd he often served. He spotted Florence immediately, his curiosity piqued as she approached the bar. It wasn't every day that a woman like her walked into his pub.

"Not often we see a lady like you in here," Harry remarked, his voice carrying a mix of surprise and caution.

Florence met his gaze evenly, her expression unwavering. "Just doing my job. Heard there's been some activity in Small Heath. Thought I'd see if anyone had any information."

Harry shrugged, reaching for a glass and filling it with whiskey. "Depends on what you're looking for. Might be some folks who don't take kindly to questions."

"Yes, I'm vaguely aware," she replied, taking the glass from him and slipping a coin across the counter. "But I find people are more willing to talk when they know someone's listening."

Harry studied her for a moment, sizing her up. There was a determination in her eyes that suggested she wouldn't be easily dissuaded. He nodded slowly, a hint of respect in his gaze. "Just be careful, miss. This place has its shadows, and not all of them are friendly."

Florence gave him a small, appreciative smile before taking a sip of her drink. She knew the risks, but she also knew that the truth was worth pursuing. As she scanned the room, she felt the weight of Harry's warning. She was here to uncover stories, no matter how deep she had to dig.

She moved to a corner table, her back to the wall, and sipped her drink. Her eyes scanned the room, noting the subtle exchanges between patrons, the way certain names drew sharp glances and hushed tones.

A young man, scruffy and nervous, approached her table. His clothes were tattered and his hands trembled slightly as he clutched his cap, twisting it in his grip. "You lookin' for information?" he asked, his voice low and barely audible over the din of the pub.

Florence nodded, leaning in slightly to hear him better. "Yes. Anything you can tell me about the Peaky Blinders or crime in Small Heath."

The man glanced around the room, his eyes darting to the shadowy corners where danger might lurk. He leaned in closer, the scent of sweat and fear mingling in the air. "There's been talk of a big shipment coming in, something the Blinders are keen on. And there's been more fights, more blood in the streets. If you're smart, you'll stay clear."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the violence and danger they implied. Florence's mind raced with the new intel, piecing together the fragments of information she had gathered. The Peaky Blinders were notorious for their ruthlessness and cunning, and any shipment they were interested in was bound to be significant.

"Thank you," Florence said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She reached into her purse and slipped him a few coins, the metal clinking softly as they exchanged hands. It was a silent agreement, a promise to keep their interaction discreet.

The young man pocketed the coins quickly, casting one last wary glance around the pub before slipping back into the crowd. Florence watched him go, her mind already turning over the possibilities. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, but the pursuit of truth was never without risk.

As she left the pub, she felt the weight of eyes on her, a reminder of the dangers that came with her profession. But Florence was undeterred. She had a story to chase, truths to uncover, and no threat from a Shelby or anyone else would sway her from her path.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across the cobbled streets of Birmingham, Florence made her way to the Birmingham Gazette's office. The sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, a fleeting moment of tranquillity before the night claimed the city. The streets, usually teeming with life, were beginning to quiet down, with only the occasional pedestrian or horse-drawn carriage breaking the silence.

The Gazette’s building loomed ahead, an imposing structure of brick and stone that stood as a testament to the weight of the words crafted within its walls. Its façade was marked by tall, narrow windows and intricate masonry, though the exterior was darkened by years of soot and grime from the industrial heart of the city. A single lantern flickered by the entrance, casting a warm, inviting glow on the worn steps leading to the door.

Florence pushed open the heavy wooden door, and was immediately enveloped by the familiar scent of ink and paper. The interior of the office was a world unto itself, a haven of intellect and inquiry amidst the chaos of Birmingham. Rows of desks were neatly arranged, each one cluttered with typewriters, stacks of paper, and half-empty inkwells. The walls were adorned with framed front pages of past editions, chronicling the city's history and the Gazette's role in it.

The office was eerily quiet at this hour. The only sound that broke the silence was the distant, rhythmic ticking of a clock mounted high on the wall, its hands inching closer to the end of the workday. The occasional creak of the floorboards under Florence's feet added to the ambiance, a reminder of the countless journalists who had walked these halls before her.

Florence made her way to her desk, a solid oak piece that had seen better days. It was littered with notes, clippings, and a well-worn leather notebook she carried everywhere. She placed her bag on the floor and lit the small oil lamp on the corner of her desk, its soft light creating a circle of warmth in the otherwise dim room.

Florence settled at her desk, the familiar weight of exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders after a long day of chasing leads and delving into the dark underbelly of Small Heath. She took a moment to collect herself, her eyes scanning the cluttered surface before her. The desk was strewn with hastily scribbled notes, newspaper clippings, and a map of Birmingham marked with various points of interest.

Her fingers lightly brushed over the cool, metal keys of her typewriter, a trusted companion in her investigative journey. The machine was old but reliable, its black finish worn to a dull sheen by years of use. Florence took a deep breath, the scent of ink and paper filling her lungs, and let it out slowly, trying to steady her nerves.

She straightened a few sheets of paper, aligning them perfectly before feeding one into the typewriter. The paper slid into place with a satisfying click, ready to bear the weight of her words. Florence's fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, her mind organising the day's events into a coherent narrative.

The rhythmic clacking of the typewriter keys soon filled the room, a comforting and familiar sound that seemed to drown out the worries and dangers of the outside world. Each keystroke was deliberate, the letters imprinting themselves onto the paper with a crisp, decisive snap. As she typed, the story of Small Heath's underworld began to take shape, each word a step closer to uncovering the truth.

Her focus was so intense that she didn’t hear the door creak open, nor the soft footsteps that followed. The rhythmic clacking of the typewriter keys filled the room, a steady cadence that drowned out the subtle sounds of intrusion. Florence was lost in her work, her mind completely absorbed in the story she was weaving. It wasn’t until a shadow fell across her desk, cutting through the warm glow of the oil lamp, that she looked up.

Her heart skipped a beat as she met the cold, calculating gaze of John Shelby. He stood there, a picture of calm menace, his presence both commanding and unsettling. The dim light cast sharp angles on his face, highlighting the hardness in his features and the glint of steel in his eyes. He was dressed impeccably, as always, in a tailored suit and polished boots, but there was an air of danger about him that was impossible to ignore.

“Florence,” he said, his voice low and smooth, yet carrying an unmistakable threat, a reminder of the power he wielded.

Florence’s pulse quickened, but she forced herself to remain composed. Her mind raced, assessing the danger while her exterior remained calm and collected. “Mr. Shelby,” she replied, her voice steady and measured. “What brings you here at this hour?”

John took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers, piercing through her facade with unsettling ease. The intensity of his gaze was like a vice, squeezing the truth out of her without a word. “Heard there was little lady in glasses digging her nose around at The Garrison today,” he said, his voice low and laced with menace. “Sounded a lot like you.”

Florence’s heart pounded in her chest, each beat a reminder of the peril she now faced. She fought to maintain her composure, her eyes locked onto John’s unyielding stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her tone even and controlled. “I’ve been busy with my work all day.”

John’s lips curled into a sinister smile, a chilling contrast to the coldness in his eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted just enough to reveal a hint of amusement, as if he enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game they were playing. “Oh really?” he drawled, taking another step closer, the space between him and her desk now almost nonexistent. “You know, I fuckin’ hate liars.”

He circled around her desk, his movements slow, like a predator sizing up its prey. Florence could feel the tension in the air, a palpable sense of danger that made her skin prickle. She gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles turning white as she tried to steady herself. The room seemed to shrink around her, the walls closing in as John came to stand behind her.

John leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. His hand brushed against her shoulder, the touch deceptively gentle, fingers trailing down her arm with a chilling intimacy. “I warned you, didn’t I?” he murmured, his voice a low, threatening whisper. “Stay out of our business.”

Florence’s eyes darted to her notes, the evidence of her day’s work spread out before her in a chaotic array of papers and scribbles. Each piece of information represented hours of painstaking effort, a tapestry of connections and secrets that she had painstakingly woven together. She knew there was no point in denying it further, but fear kept her silent, her throat constricting as if gripped by an invisible hand.

John’s gaze followed hers, landing on the scattered papers and the typewriter that had been the instrument of her relentless inquiry. His calm demeanour cracked, replaced by a flash of unbridled fury. With a sudden, violent motion, he grabbed the typewriter and hurled it across the room. The crash echoed through the empty office, the machine shattering into pieces, keys and metal fragments skittering across the wooden floor.

Florence flinched at the sound, her heart racing, but she quickly composed herself. The defiance that had been simmering beneath the surface now blazed in her eyes as she faced John. “You can’t scare me into silence, Shelby,” she declared, her voice stronger and more resolute. “The truth will come out, whether you like it or not.”

John’s eyes narrowed, his anger intensifying. The room seemed to darken as his presence grew more menacing. In a swift, brutal motion, he grabbed her wrist with an iron grip, yanking her to her feet. The force of his pull sent a jolt of pain up her arm, but she refused to show any sign of weakness.

“You think you can ignore me?” he spat, his voice a low, dangerous growl. His face was inches from hers, close enough that she could see the flicker of rage in his eyes. “You think you can lie to me and get away with it?”

Florence struggled against his grip, her fear morphing into a reckless determination that burned in her chest. “Please, Mr. Shelby, I’m just doing my job,” she pleaded, her voice trembling with a mix of desperation and defiance. She refused to let him see her break.

John’s grip tightened around her wrist, the pressure sending sharp jolts of pain up her arm. His eyes blazed with a dangerous intensity, and yet there was something undeniably magnetic about his anger, a raw, primal energy that seemed to fill the room. He leaned in closer, reducing the space between them to mere inches. His other hand rose slowly, almost languidly, to brush a strand of hair from her face, the gesture mockingly tender and intimate.

“Your job,” he hissed, his breath hot against her skin, each word a caress and a threat, “is to keep your nose out of our business.” His voice was a low, seductive growl, filled with a dark promise that sent shivers down her spine.

Florence’s breath quickened, her senses overwhelmed by the proximity of him, the scent of his cologne mingling with the raw power he exuded. But beneath the fear, a spark of defiance flared. She met his gaze head-on, her eyes flashing with an unyielding resolve.

“You cross us again,” John continued, his tone softening to a dangerously smooth whisper, “and it won’t just be your typewriter getting smashed.”

Desperation and courage surged within Florence, a volatile mix that fueled her next, reckless action. Her eyes darted to a letter opener lying on her desk, its sharp edge glinting under the dim light. In one swift motion, she snatched it up and slashed at John, aiming for his arm with all the force she could muster. But he was faster.

John’s reflexes were like lightning. He caught her wrist mid-swing, his grip like a vise, unyielding and painfully strong. He twisted her arm with brutal efficiency until she was forced to drop the weapon, a cry of pain escaping her lips as the letter opener clattered to the floor.

His eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, a mixture of amusement and fury, as he bent down to pick up the fallen letter opener. He turned it over in his hand, examining it with a calm, deadly curiosity. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice a deadly whisper that seemed to vibrate in the tense air between them. “But guts ain't gonna save you.”

With a final, violent shove, he forced her on to her back against the top of desk, the edge of the wooden surface digging painfully into her lower back. The letter opener was pressed menacingly against her throat, its cold metal biting into her skin. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the tension between them almost palpable.

With a sudden, predatory move, John surged forward, his body a blur of motion. In an instant, he climbed onto the desk, his powerful frame pinning Florence beneath him. The hard surface pressed painfully into her back, trapping her against the unyielding wood. His weight bore down on her, a suffocating force that made it difficult to draw breath. The edge of the letter opener felt like a shard of ice against her skin, a cold reminder of the lethal danger she was in.

Florence's breath came in shallow, rapid gasps, her chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm. Her heart pounded so violently she feared it might burst from her ribcage. She stared up at John, her vision filled with the furious intensity of his gaze. His face was contorted with rage, every muscle tight with barely restrained violence. Yet beneath the mask of fury, she glimpsed something else—something darker and more complex, a volatile mix of emotions that defied easy categorisation.

"Do you have any fuckin' clue who you're playing with, Florence?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. The words were laced with venom, each syllable dripping with contempt and menace. "Do you understand the fuckin' consequences?"

Florence swallowed hard, her throat dry and constricted, each breath a struggle against the weight of the fear and tension that enveloped her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, a searing contrast to the cold edge of the letter opener against her skin. The intensity of his gaze bore into her, a tangible force that seemed to strip away her defences and lay her soul bare. The air between them crackled with a dangerous, electric charge, a volatile mix of fear and something else—something she couldn't quite name, but that thrummed through her veins with an unsettling familiarity.

"I know the risks," she managed to say, her voice barely more than a whisper, each word a battle against her own terror. "But I won't back down. I can't."

John's eyes narrowed, the fury in them blazing like a storm ready to unleash its full wrath. Yet, as he searched her face, scrutinising every nuance of her expression, a flicker of something else crossed his features. It was brief, almost imperceptible—a softening of his hardened gaze, replaced momentarily by something that looked almost like admiration.

But the moment was gone as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed up by the relentless tide of his anger. His grip tightened, the letter opener biting more deeply into her throat, a cruel reminder of the precarious edge on which she balanced. The brief reprieve of humanity vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating menace.

"You’re a stupid, stubborn little girl," John said, his voice a volatile mix of frustration and grudging respect. Each word was tinged with a raw intensity that made Florence's skin prickle. "It's gonna get you fuckin' killed."

His grip on the letter opener relaxed slightly, and with a deliberate slowness, he allowed it to fall to the desk beside her. The metal clattered against the wood, the sound reverberating through the tense silence. Florence's heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing the gravity of the moment. She barely had time to process the shift in his demeanour when his hand moved to her face, his fingers brushing against her cheek with surprising gentleness. The contrast between his earlier violence and this unexpected tenderness sent a shiver down her spine, a confusing mix of fear and something unsettlingly close to desire.

John's touch was light, almost reverent, his calloused fingers tracing the curve of her cheekbone with a delicacy that belied the brutality of their confrontation. His eyes, dark and stormy, held hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. The fury that had blazed within them moments before had softened, replaced by a deeper, more complex emotion that Florence couldn't quite decipher.

"You’re playing with fire, Florence," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate whisper that seemed to wrap around her like a physical presence. His face was inches from hers, so close she could feel the movement of his lips against her own. "I'd hate to see that pretty little face burned."

Florence's breath hitched, a jagged sound that betrayed the whirlwind of emotions swirling within her. Fear was there, a cold, unyielding knot in her stomach, but it was accompanied by something more confusing, more dangerous—a spark of something primal that flared in response to his proximity. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, a searing contrast to the cool air of the room. The intensity of his presence was overwhelming, a magnetic force that drew her in despite every rational thought screaming at her to pull away. It was intoxicating, and she hated herself for the way her body responded, a traitorous shiver running down her spine.

"I stand by what I said," she replied, her voice finding a steadiness that belied the tumult inside her. "I’m not afraid of you."

Her words hung in the air, a bold declaration that seemed to challenge the very fabric of the tension between them. John's eyes darkened, his expression shifting into a dangerous mix of anger and something more primal, more visceral. His gaze locked onto hers, a storm of emotions swirling in the depths of his eyes. He leaned in closer, his breath mingling with hers, the space between them shrinking to a hair's breadth. She could feel the heat of his skin, the roughness of his breath, and the raw power emanating from him.

"You should be," he whispered, his voice a rough, dangerous promise that sent a fresh wave of shivers cascading through her. His lips were almost brushing hers, the tantalising proximity a heady mixture of threat and temptation. Each word was a caress and a warning, a reminder of the perilous edge on which they both balanced.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The tension between them was almost unbearable, a taut wire ready to snap. Florence could feel the rapid thudding of her heart, each beat a drumroll leading to an inevitable climax. John's eyes bore into hers, dark and stormy, a tempest of emotions she could barely decipher. And then, with a sudden, fierce urgency, his mouth claimed hers in a bruising kiss.

The initial shock was like a jolt of electricity coursing through her veins. His kiss was violent, a raw expression of dominance and control. Florence's mind screamed in protest, her body instinctively recoiling from the intensity. She raised her hands to his chest, pushing with all her might, but it was like trying to move a mountain. His body was a solid wall of muscle, immovable and unyielding.

His kiss was a battle, a clash of wills fought with lips and teeth and tongues. The taste of him was overwhelming, a blend of heat and fury that left her breathless. Her struggles only seemed to fuel his intensity, his grip on her tightening as if to prove a point. His hands were everywhere—cupping her face, tangling in her hair, pressing her harder against the desk.

With a surge of desperate energy, Florence managed to tear her mouth from his, gasping for breath. "Get off me!" she demanded, her voice a mixture of anger and something she couldn't quite name. She shoved at him again, her palms pressing against the hard planes of his chest, but he didn't budge.

John laughed, a low, mocking sound that sent a chill down her spine. "You think you can push me away, little Flo?" he taunted, his voice dripping with a dark, twisted amusement. "You think you have any fuckin' control here?"

His words stung, a cruel reminder of the power imbalance between them. But Florence refused to back down. She met his gaze with a defiant glare, her eyes blazing with determination. "You bastard," she spat, her voice trembling with the force of her resolve.

"Don't you dare fuckin' forget this," he said, his voice rough. "Remember what fuckin' happens when you cross me."

With that, he released her and stood, stepping back from the desk. John straightened, his expression once again cold and controlled. "Stay out of our business, Miss Fletcher," he said, his tone a final warning. "Next time, I won't be so forgiving."

John turned and left the office, each step echoing with finality on the polished hardwood floor. The door closed behind him with a decisive click, the sound reverberating in the silence that followed. Florence remained where she was, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, her mind spinning in a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

She slowly pushed herself up from the desk, her body trembling visibly as she tried to regain her composure. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, as if they might give way at any moment. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to steady the trembling that had taken hold of her. Every breath was a reminder of the intensity of the encounter, the bruising pressure of John's lips still lingering on her own.

As her eyes roamed the room, they landed on the broken typewriter lying on the floor, keys scattered like fallen soldiers around it. The sight of the shattered machine sent a fresh wave of fear and anger coursing through her. That typewriter had been her lifeline, her conduit for uncovering the truth, and now it lay in ruins—a stark symbol of the power John wielded and the lengths he was willing to go to silence her.

With a deep, steadying breath, Florence forced herself to move. She knelt down and began picking up the scattered keys, each one a small, sharp reminder of what she was up against. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal, and she felt a pang of loss for the machine that had been her trusty companion in this dangerous game.

Piece by piece, she gathered the remnants of the typewriter, placing them gently on the desk as if by some miracle she could put it back together. But she knew it was beyond repair. The typewriter was a casualty of this war, but she wouldn't let it be in vain.

As she tidied up the office, straightening papers and organising her notes, her mind raced with thoughts of what to do next. The reality of her situation was clearer than ever—she was in over her head, but she couldn't afford to stop now. The truth was too important, and she was determined to see it through, no matter the cost.

The night outside had deepened, the city settling into a restless silence. The distant hum of traffic and the occasional wail of a siren were the only sounds that broke the stillness. The darkness outside the window seemed to press in on her, a stark contrast to the harsh fluorescent light inside the office.

As she placed the last of the broken keys on the desk, Florence stood back and surveyed the room. It looked more orderly now, but the chaos in her mind was far from settled. She knew she had to come up with a new plan, a new way to continue her work without the typewriter. But how?

She leaned against the desk, her fingers tracing the lines of her notepad. The battle had only just begun, and she needed to be ready for whatever came next. Ideas began to form, tentative and fragile, but they were enough to give her a glimmer of hope.

Florence's resolve hardened, her determination solidifying into a steely resolve. She couldn't let John's intimidation tactics break her spirit. If anything, she needed it to fuel her determination. She was ready to face whatever came next - at least she thought she was.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #behind enemy lines #john shelby #florence fletcher #john shelby fanfic #enemies to lovers #peaky blinders oc #john shelby x oc #john shelby fanfiction #john shelby x florence fletcher #peaky blinders fanfic

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infinitycutter · 1 year

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Mémoire de la Mode - Yohji Yamamoto

by François Baudot (1997)

Those who wear my clothes try to assert a single opinion,” says Yohji Yamamoto. This essential way of thinking about fashion, which he has succinctly expressed for more than 20 years, sums up his own creative activity. In contrast to the extremely rich era of haute couture, the glorious side of prêt-à-porter, and the futurism of the avant-garde, Yamamoto, a Japanese man, asserts the strength and difference of Yamamoto's style in a small but decisive way by returning to clothing archetypes, choosing neutral expression, and employing a simplified palette and register. The return to traditional Japanese patterns and the use of a more neutral expression, a simplified palette and registers (designs), all of which gradually but definitively assert the strength and difference of the Japanese style. Examining the couture of Paris as well as the traditional Japanese garments, the silhouette of his work explores a whole new realm of fashion appearance and behavior. In this turbulent century, more has emerged than has been raised in a thousand vears of fashion issues.

The couturiers who had been at the height of their powers in the 1950s were forced to admit that in the decade that followed, the power of the designers was slowly being established. These designers contributed to the growth of the big brand manufacturers,

The first generation of "young creatives" was born. The style of the young creators, a necessity for the majority of Parisians, would later suffer from a regimentation of Italians who were transformed into better and better supporters.

Thus, from 1965 to 1985, many of the directions of couturiers and fashion creators in the bretaille were developed, loved, and organized. The focus, the baroque, the traditional exuberance, etc., were all confined to their own creations, which in the early 80's were documented by those who would be defined as "conceptualists". This expression of premillennialism is a new trend that emerged in the plastic arts between 1950 and 1970, in which ideas, qualities, and analysis of concepts and results took the place of the body of work through the artist's creative activity.

This is precisely the "opinion" that Yamamoto presents. The public art of dreaming is considered elusive, but it wants to approach the public from the outset, while focusing on the real.

Today's fashion follows artists whose work has not been consumed by the market economy for the last ten years or so, and minimalist artists are proud of their fame as somewhat distant successors to Marcel Duchamp. The monochrome paintings of Ad Reinhardt, the charcoal forms of Donald Judd, Sol LeWitt and Karl Andre, the ergonomics of everyday materials, the theatrical art of Janis Knellis, Mario Merz and Giulio Paolini, the so-called Arte Portuguera, are just a few of the artists who are represented. These variations of modern art are the most important examples of the modern art of the past. These variations of modern art tend to be all about integrating the everyday into the everyday life, to bring the short image back into its original role and to capture it from a new perspective, whether it is a block of paper, a torn poster or the neon lights of a metropolis.

Even if Yamamoto does not seek the status of a so-called artist, his later works show an unusual sensitivity to the currents of the times by not using an original approach to the body of art. It is the same as what the couturiers of the previous era showed against cubism, Russian ballet, or pop art. For example, Andy Warhol, in his hot tea in the 70's, uses the verbal expression "a department store is like a museum" and turns the expression upside down to "I like Rome, because it is a museum after all, like the department store in Bloomingdale’s".

Pulte Pozzella goes even further and uses the same primitive elements of this addition, such as scraps, shavings, starch, coal, etc., as the main ingredients of the original product. In the same way, amoto is one of the few who, in the turbulent thirties, reads a rupture with the traditional idea of "entertainment". Likewise, Yamamoto is one of the few who, in the turbulent thirties, reads of a disconnection from the traditional ideas of "entertainment". He is one of the few who reads a break with the traditional idea of "kogei", which until then had been considered fascinating!

In order to accept the bags, he redefined his own relationship with the male (or female) body, redefined the relationship between beauty and certainty, antiquity and the future, and memory and modernity in a way that has become a tradition in a context where most people have no separate understanding of the relationship between these things.

Black, "the silhouette of all silhouettes in the shadow of the ultimate plate," is the best weapon for questioning what we wear, as was the case with Chanel in the early part of this century. The collection is a true dress for shadows, encompassing the silhouettes of mystery, without house-cloths, anchors, or detailing. In the midst of a glorious body of beauty and a civilization that is unspoiled by any day, Yamamoto invented a new discipline: summiting. His originality has no national origins, no beginnings, and even the slightest pretension has been removed. In other words, "back to the core". This is his philosophy of hair persuasion.

His creations, which are the source of his ideas for means and costumes, represent the national trend toward the impractical idea of 1. In response to the definitive selection of the eponymous quality of "elegance," he transposed it into an environment that is recognized as beautiful and vernacular in our time. In its ascetic variations, Hara Shu's archaeological₴, or Sugata's style, continually reexamines itself, blurring the line between the ephemeral and the immutable. Thus, like all important events in the fashion world in the past, the "classic" is born.

The modern form of the dress is a secret, enduring elegance with contemporary significance.

The wealth of the world is maximized by the power of the mind.

His surname means "at the foot of the mountain". In 1943, he was born in Tokyo and grew up in a small town called Kogei.

He grew up in Japan, where his parents, both war widows, were the elders of the Imperial Japanese Navy. He grew up in Japan under the guidance of his father, a war widower, who was the head of the Northeast Asian Women's Association (NWA).

Without any certainty, he attempted to enter the elite society of Japan with the given discipline and purpose. However, he surprised his parents by finally deciding to return to their place. As a condition of working in the store, his parents wanted him to attend the famous cultural and artistic exhibitions. Although this was to help him learn the basics of the trade, it was a problematic, emotional, and busy few years for him. The only male student was Yamamoto, the highest paid student in the school.

The reason is that he was a student. The only thing that the remaining customers later asked for was a copy of Bali's latest model. But the hardest part of the evening was that whatever little money was made from it could be used for one's own production.

In 1UGU, Yamamoto enters a competition and receives a bariatric travel grant. He spent eight months in the heart of fashion without a single centimeter and without money. It was enougn to find work as a designer. He spoke no French, hardly spoke a word of the language, and made all kinds of tea instead. He was particularly interested in the bret-a-porter that was then emerging in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He felt that he had become fascinated by this kind of artlessness.

After returning to Tokyo in 1972, he established the Y’s Company, which presented its first collection in Tokyo in 1977.

In 1981, he participated in a fashion show in Paris with Kawakubo. Later, in 1981, he and Kawakubo participated in a fashion show in Paris, which caused a sensation in Paris. At this time, the world's press was forced to decide where to go. The question was whether or not they would accept the change in fashion and fashion show format that had been working so well. While there was a lot of criticism about the show, there were also voices from the side of the fashion industry that were opposed to the show. The unknown artists were now in the limelight amongst the solder community.

The Liberation newspaper on the day of the show was titled "A leading role for Japanese in the French fashion world". Michel Claesol wrote: "The original surfaces that we will dye in 1982 will be worn for the next 20 years -

What Courrèges and Cartan proposed around 1200 as being applicable until the year 2000 AD is now as old as a Soviet science fiction movie. For a long time, French couturiers thought that couture, like science, was a way to right the wrongs of the past. But Japanese designers foreshadowed something when they wrote, "Japanese designers are preparing to make it possible for real families to quickly decide what clothes and accessories to wear when they have only 30 minutes before going out • • • •

This premonition was confirmed 15 years later when Yamamoto became a businessman as well as a creator. In 1981, he began to work on costumes, the cornerstone of conservatism, although he himself pronounced that he was not interested in money and had little of it. He was the first to take up the position of vice president of the company, and he was the first to be promoted to the position of president.

To accompany him, he thought he had to break the heavy connotation of the three-piece costume. As a result, he came up with a costume that was soft and dusky without escalating the extremes. The White shirts are an expression of neoclassicism without being harsh or authoritative.

Low folds, narrow shoulders, three-button jackets, pants that bend at the hem and narrow at the knee over well-polished shoes - all have had a decisive influence on the male silhouette for more than a decade. But he has the skill to weave in the constancy of the waterway, to put many men at ease who do not want to feel like victims of the mode. In a recent film set in Germany during the period between the two world wars, a dressmaker is accused of artificiality and of being "a man of the world".

The actors are dressed in Yamamoto style without making anyone feel "retro".

If fashion is about clothing, it is not essential. But if fashion is to feel our daily life, it is not indispensable. Painting, crimping, and other art forms,

There are very few things that can directly influence people, such as fashion and music, which are inexpensive. Fashion is the essential and only communication about the sensations of a generation of people who wear what they want to wear.

Yamamoto is the most philosophical of fashion creators. The wildest of the wild rivers. But perhaps he is the most disillusioned of all.

Making clothes is about people. I always want to meet and talk with people. That's what interests me the most. What do they do? What do they think about? What kind of life do they lead? After thinking about these things, I get to work. I start with the fabric, the material, and the "touch" of the fabric, then the form. Touch is the most important place for me. Once I get into the material, I am obsessed with the material becoming form," he functions. All of Yohji Yamamoto's garments start from two points on the chain. From there, the fabric flows down in the best possible way and the material remains alive.

When he quietly entered the over-accessorized, organized, and glitzy world of Parisian prêt-à-porter in the 1980s, Yamamoto's designs were plump. At the time, Yamamoto's designs were plump as he quietly entered the world of Parisian prêt-à-porter in the 1980s. The fabrics he incorporated into his details were so close to the body that they never touched it. His clothes were generally thick, translucent, and dark in color, sometimes without embellishment.

The medieval simplicity is accompanied by an "old-fashioned" effect. The simplicity of the Middle Ages is accompanied by a "worn-out" effect, which some have labeled "afterpunk" (grunge did not exist then). The passing of time is etched and the matted accessories are familiar.

This aversion to novelty can already be seen in the British dandies. They would intentionally make their boots look old, or allow their servants to wear their "camel's fur" for a year or two before wearing it themselves.

The extremely large capes, misshapen cloaks, and unrealistic symmetrical jackets are all the result of the creator Yamamoto's dream: "My dream is to design time. Symmetry, the symbol of perfection, lacks something human.

He confides in Wim Wenders, who entrusted him with a feature film. The scissors and the fabric reverse man prefers to base his work on something truly human. Therein lies his point of departure. For example, the authorship of the clothes worn by hundreds of unknown models.

During both World Wars, he was the model for the photographer August Sander, a worker of the most German men and women. The bungalows, the salovettes, the fishermen workers. The world of the photographer's own world is also engraved in the crosswalker's layered attire all the way down to the soles of his shoes.

The clothes that suit the person wearing them disappear before the personality of the person who chose them. Yamamoto is : "Whether a season's fashions are White or White

White is not the responsibility of the creators, but the responsibility of those who see and buy them. Where is the Japanese touch? World citizen Yamamoto admits to having discovered his own style by examining the history of fashion, especially couture. As for his appearance as a native of Japan, he says, "Japanese influence? I don't care a bit about that. The creator, one of the country's most talented people, criticizes his own country as well as a systemic fixation that is sometimes unappealingly heavy-handed: "I happen to be a Japanese student. I happen to be born in Japan," he says. I was born in Japan by chance, but I have never felt that I have taken advantage of that label. But it is hard not to see the influence of tradition in the subtlety of the fabrics that Yamamoto wears on his body, in the timelessness or vulgarity of his style, and in the shamefulness of his models. Imagination, stillness, and even abstraction become the web of the kimono and the wool of the fur, the fabric of Yamamoto's weave. The imbalance between the wild and the refined, between natural materials and technological products, between the land of the senses and the land of the emotions, is astonishingly calculated. This is why the world is attracted to the Far East. All of these refined values can be found, without the slightest pretension, in the work of Yamamoto himself and in his daily work as a consummate designer.

He is the longest-serving designer of men's and women's looks at the end of the century, expressing the uncertainties, anguish, contradictions, and passions of the time. The same goes for the value of maturity. It is a somewhat forgotten value of the glorious thirties, but one that will endure long into the future.

for pictures, see @archive-pdf’s scan of the book.

#yohji yamamoto #long post

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