#rizer..

[jurif]

He was just a slip of a boy, bones protruding at odd angles—a malnourished, waifish little thing, with coal-black hair that contrasted the stark white of his skin. He moved like a frightened lamb, cautious, one foot slowly in front of the other, and seldom opened his mouth unless spoken to. He had a kind of desperation in his dark eyes that would make anyone sick with grief. Most people would turn away, feeling disgusted and guilty, but some might reach out a hand to touch his gaunt face—thumb his downturned lips, cracked and bleeding from being anxiously licked, wind their fingers into his coarse, unbrushed hair, and watch him cower away, pathetic and shivering.

Rizer was eighteen, going on adolescent.

His eyes seemed too wide for his face, only for the fact that his cheeks hardly had anything to fill themselves with, and his eyelashes were long and thick, like a girl’s; it was his one point of beauty. He wore thin, cracked glasses which slipped down his long, pointed nose. It, like his glasses, had clearly been broken several times, and lay on his face in a frustratingly misshapen way. This wasn’t the only indication of violence Rizer carried with him. He always walked with a slight limp, always had some bruise or other blossoming tenderly on his skin—today his cheek is purple and his eye is yellow, next week his eye will be fine and there will be a string of violet fingerprints around his neck while his cheek fades into obscurity—and his knuckles were always smarting. It was ghoulish, seeing such a ravaged creature walking along the street, but, nervous as he was, Rizer was used to whatever lashings he got and had adapted to live with them.

The clothes he wore were simple, plain, cheap, effective. Block coloured long sleeve shirts, which seemed more befitting of a twelve-year-old, but that didn’t really matter given his stature, and straight legged jeans, far too baggy for him. The one item of clothing he ever wore that looked like it was actually worth a dime was a dark brown leather jacket, fitting him even worse than his own clothes—he rarely wore it out, but when he did, Rizer wrapped it tightly around his thin frame and inhaled the smell of cigarettes and cheap whiskey, basking in its comfort. Perhaps it was that which kept him nonchalant about the beatings he took; perhaps Rizer Anheuser cared about familiarity, above all things.

[miamaimania]

“Floating” by Steven Meisel

[blu3per]

These two scenes always looked... oddly similar to me.

So I autism'd all over the place and made this

Twas too good of an opportunity to miss

[hannahleah]

Maggie Rizer [?] for Arena, January/February 2000 by Mikael Jansson

[80s-90s-fashionphotography]

Give me space- Vogue UK (1999)

Maggie Rizer by Nick Knight

[hautescouture]

"le ultime vestali" by steven meisel for vogue italia march 1998

[chappellsource]

CHAPPELL ROAN talks “THE GIVER” — interviewed by Kelly Sutton + Joyce Rizer for Amazon Music’s Country Heat Weekly Podcast

[saccharine-dreamer]

Anna Sui 1998 Autum/Winter Collection

worn by Michele Hicks, Shalom Harlow, Maggie Rizer, Carmen Kass, Danita Angell and Audrey Marnay

[venusimleder]

Margiela, A/W 1997.

Ph. Steven Meisel

[theoriginalsupermodels]

Chanel - Fall 2001 RTW

[hornworts]

VOGUE ITALIA July 1997 Cut and Shape editorial photographed by Steven Meisel and styled by Brana Wolf

[jurif]

“Teufel! Schaitan! Plage!”

His hands and feet are bound.

“Our Father which art in Heaven—”

He’s screaming and thrashing like a madchild.

“Hallowed be thy name.”

His face is damp not with tears nor sweat but the blood of Christus himself.

“Thy kingdom come.”

“Dämonenkind!”

“Thy will be done—”

He bares his fangs like a dog. The matrons gasp.

“In Earth, as it is in Heaven.”

Devil, devil, devil. He can hardly stand to look at the cross thrust in his face. He had not been escorted gently. They had ripped him from his bed and dragged him, terrified, to the prayer room, where he was held down and tied up—no chance of escape. The matrons look at him in fear and disgust and Herr Pfarrer Fischer’s lips form each Latin syllable robotically, eyes cold as they meet the child’s own (green, at birth, though now they’re a reddish brown, blood tracked into dirt). Playing God. Playing his saviour.

Now for the Hail Marys.

I don’t want to be here, he thinks. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. The rope chafes at his sickly grey skin until it breaks and bleeds. He writhes.

How long has he been here?

Herr Pfarrer Fischer is speaking to him. Or, more accurately, Herr Pfarrer Fischer is speaking to the demon encasing itself in his tiny body, commanding it to show itself. To leave this innocent child.

Right now, he would like nothing more than to rip out Fischer’s throat with his teeth.

Now he’s begging. Herr Pfarrer Fischer ignores him. The matrons watch, voyeuristic. Everyone knows why the other children’s pets have been disappearing. Everyone knows who took them. Sucked the blood out of them. Left their rotting carcasses in bins scattered around the property. They know. They want this child exterminated.

"Stop," he says, "Stop. Stop." In the beginning he’d been more polite, pleading for his freedom, but they’ve kept him too long for him to be concerned with that now. He is hurting. His head is cracked open and leaks against the sterile linoleum floor.

Herr Pfarrer Fischer does not stop. Herr Pfarrer Fischer keeps going for hours and hours, even though absolutely nothing about him has changed except his voice growing hoarse from his constant, guttural screams. Eventually, finally, he withdraws, telling the matrons that it’s alright and in most cases follow-up sessions are in order, reassuring them that this wasn’t a lost cause and they’ll get rid of this devil yet.

Follow-up sessions.

This is where Herr Pfarrer Fischer leaves him. A matron reluctantly steps forward, cuts his hands and feet loose, and then she leaves him, too. The adults mechanically file out of the room while he shivers and bleeds on the ground. Oh, he is so hungry. Oh, he is so weak. He turns his head, exhausted, tongue lolling out to lap at his own blood.

Jezus eyes him disappointedly.

[a-state-of-bliss]

Maggie Rizer @ Christian Dior Haute Couture Fall/Wint 1999

[fashiontimeless]

“Conservative Party”, Shalom Harlow and Maggie Rizer by Steven Klein for Vogue, september 2000

[hannahleah]

Maggie Rizer by Steven Meisel. Vogue Italia (March 1999)

[80s-90s-fashionphotography]

Scenes from a wedding- Vogue US (1998)

By Ellen von Unwerth