#the witch of positano

[thedepartmentofdiscoveries]

Blue Fox, 1972-1974. -Vali Myers.

Foxy, 1967. - Vali Myers.

Wu Man, 1970, The Vali Myers Art Gallery Trust collection.

Moby Dick, 1972-1974. - Vali Myers.

Dream within a Dream, 1982. - Vali Myers.

Vali Myers in the late 1960s at the Chelsea Hotel in New York.CREDIT:JOEL ELSKINS

Vali Myers during her Sydney exhibition.CREDIT:ANDREW TAYLOR

Photo by Eduardo Fernandez.

More info on Vali Myers:

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

ZOOM magazine, n.8, 1971

[circe007]

At the end of the sixties, there was in Positano - this tiny commune on the Amalfi coast, with unreal colors - a strange vision hesitating between the woman and the feline; some called her "the cat", "the beast", others "the living dead". With her fiery copper hair like a fox's finery and her disturbing esoteric tattoos, one cannot say that Vali Myers -for that is her name- passed for normal. Already in the 1950s, when she was photographed in the smoky clubs of the left bank, Vali, who was not yet the "redhead witch" she would later become, seems strangely anachronistic. We obviously think of the hallucinated appearances of Casati, with whom she shared an addiction to opium. Ahead or behind its time, we cannot say, but one thing is certain, this creature - because it is indeed one - with the disheveled mop of hair and the eyes heavily ringed with kohl does not leave indifferent. Animal, even primal, we easily imagine it twisting and getting lost in tribal dances that made it magnetic. Perhaps a legacy of his Australian origins. A pythia on the arms of jazzmen, a panther on the asphalt. From the 1950s to the 1970s, Vali knew all that world bohemia counted as cursed icons, naming them would be abstruse, an almost indecent litany. Muse of shadow, protecting its mystery, she shared with motherly generosity its qualities of inspiration; sacred food, offering to poets. Original before being original, Vali made herself worthy heiress of these divine magicians of past centuries, guardians of so many age-old secrets, and in Positano where she held a session in front of the psychedelic princes of the time (she received Mick and Marianne, danced for Donovan on "Season of the Witch"), Vali painted fascinating variegated canvases with sinuous patterns, disturbing emanations of his "free" spirit, that primitive soul which today, like the spirit of the sea, the earth, and of each element, still floats on the reliefs of Positano.

A la fin des années soixante, il y avait à Positano -cette minuscule commune de la côte d’Amalfi, aux couleurs irréelles – une étrange vision hésitant entre la femme et le félin ; certains l’appelaient « le chat », « la bête », d’autres « la morte vive ». Avec ses cheveux d’un cuivre flamboyant pareil à la parure d’un renard et ses dérangeants tatouages ésotériques, l’on ne peut pas dire que Vali Myers -car c’est son nom- passait pour normale. Déjà dans les années 50, lorsqu’elle était photographiée dans les clubs enfumés de la rive gauche, Vali qui n’était pas encore la « sorcière rousse » qu’elle deviendra plus tard, paraît étrangement anachronique. On pense évidemment aux apparitions hallucinées de la Casati, avec laquelle elle partageait une addiction à l’opium. En avance ou en retard sur son temps, l’on ne saurait dire, mais une chose est sûre, cette créature -car c’en est bien une- à la tignasse ébouriffée et aux yeux lourdement cernés de kôhl ne laisse pas indifférent. Animale, primale même, on l’imagine aisément se tordre et se perdre dans des danses tribales qui la rendaient magnétique. Peut-être un héritage de ses origines australiennes. Une pythie au bras des jazzmen, une panthère sur l’asphalte. Des années 50 à 70, Vali connu tout ce que la bohème mondiale compta d’icônes maudites, les nommer serait abscon, une litanie quasi indécente. Muse de l’ombre, protégeant son mystère, elle partageait avec une générosité maternelle ses qualités d’inspiratrice ; nourriture sacrée, offrande aux poètes. Originelle avant d’être originale, Vali se fit digne héritière de ces divines magiciennes des siècles passés, gardiennes de tant de secrets millénaires, et à Positano où elle tenait séance devant les princes psychédéliques de l’époque (elle recevait Mick et Marianne, dansait pour Donovan sur « Season of the Witch »), Vali peignait de fascinantes toiles bigarrées aux motifs sinueux, inquiétantes émanations de son esprit « libre », cette âme primitive qui aujourd’hui, tel l’esprit de la mer, de la terre, et de chaque élément, flotte encore sur les reliefs de Positano.

[factoringprimes-blog]

"Tennessee Williams’ character Carol Cutrere in Orpheus Descending written in 1957 is clearly based on his friend Vali: “She is past thirty and, lacking in prettiness, she has an odd, fugitive beauty which is stressed, almost to the point of fantasy, by a style of make-up with which a dancer named Vali has lately made such an impression in the Bohemian centres of France and Italy, the face and lips powdered white and the eyes outlined and exaggerated with black pencil and the lids tinted blue.”

[kulturrgroupie]

Vali Myers the Witch of Positano

[tomorrowisapromise]

Vali Myers, the witch of Positano

house

[thesorceresstemple]

Vali Myers, the Witch of Positano

[frenchwitchdiary]

[huariqueje]

Vali, The Witch of Positano     -   Paulina Olowska , 2021.

Polish, b.  1976 - 

Oil on canvas , 100 x 85 cm.    39.4 x 33.5 in.

[traveling-paradise]

Vali Myers was an Australian visionary artist, dancer, bohemian and muse whose coverage by the media was mostly in the decades of the 1950s and 1960s in Europe and the United States.

Probably the most interesting woman I’ve ever heard of, I admire Vali greatly for the simple fact that she lived her life free of inhibitions and was as free spirited and authentic as anyone can be✨❤️

[artwitchmanifesto]

Vali Myers, the Witch of Positano, australian psychedelic painter, dancer, and animals caregiver. A true inspirational muse to me, and she's now standing on my new winter altar ~ 🎄

[frankiifranki]

Today we celebrate BD of Vali Myers'

[venenorum-archive]

hekate has only ever seen her witch bruised once, but it had been enough. someone would have put it out of their head, not given it a second but the goddess wasn't that person. truth is, she could be rather obsessive when it came to the people she cared for. they had returned to a particular patch of woods, scenic and peaceful but something felt off. the thought flits through her mind as she's on her way back to their little camp. and it's not so much a sound that alerts her of their presence, but the disturbance of animals. a stray rabbit skittering on by and chaos descends.

she doesn't want to keep track of the ones who were obviously here for io. the goddess didn't know a lot about those hunting io but she knew enough that she was ready to defend io and get them out of here and somewhere else. and truly, that was her plan as she waded into the thick of it, and watch io get hit. and then she lost her mind. all the noise drowned out immediately, and a wave of her power flashed outward, reality itself flickering as several bodies fell, choking and attempting to draw oxygen in, blood pouring from their eyes and ears. a low rumbling filled the ears as she walked forward, eyes flashing from pale moonlight to gold and back and again. shadows rose behind her, neema's hellhound form pawing from the darkness, fur covered snout pulling back over rows of razor sharp teeth. ❝ ━ get rid of them. ❞

milky gaze toward the lone man and io's voice rings out, nearly stopping her. but she doesn't, the goddess gets close, meeting the other's gaze as a feral smile splits over her expression, and she's sure there's not a sane quality there. ❝ ━ for them....you live. should you cross my path again, i will floss with your bones...❞ a hand rises and she snaps her fingers, and io, her and inter mundos were in positano. her hands shake, her entirety trembling with the need to go back and finish them off, but she doesn't. instead the goddess moves toward io, crouching infront of them, gently brushing fingers over their cheek, the bruise fading away. ❝ ━ that was him, wasn't it ? ❞

❝ unprompted.

          INTER MUNDOS FEEL LIKES IT’S groaning. and it makes iovita’s stomach turn. they moved fast, and the witch, before hekate, had been the only to ever use the magic that makes it move. for several long seconds, they’re quiet, eyes closed tight as they let their magic filter back into the rooms. slowly, quietly. reclaiming it. and the magic clinging to the shop’s walls nudges back. hekate’s hand is on their cheek, but they don’t register anything except for the adrenaline-fueled pounding of their heart.

          it goes through their head, though, the events of the past twenty minutes.

-

          the hounds tracking them down no matter where they are is nothing unusual. it happens. iovita is often well-equipped to take care of them. and if they don’t then… col wins. sometimes they think that would be the worst death for them. other times they think it would be the easiest.

          this time, however, is the first time hekate has also been present.

          they want to explain the loose circle of hunters around them, because they don’t want bloodshed. not because of the hounds in general, but because he is there. straight-backed and cold-faced. they know the force of hekate’s anger, and they are desperate that col does not get caught in the crossfire. but the hounds don’t make it easy. iovita thinks they recognize the one who comes forward, burn scars on her face. she’s quick as a snake, pain flashing across iovita’s cheekbone before they know what’s happening.

          and that…

          it’s a blur. there’s blood, they see. there’s screams, they hear. there is a hellhound, stalking among the hunters with ruthless efficiency hekate is powerful, and the force of it makes them dizzy, swaying back and then tilting forward to land on their hands and knees, jaw clenched tight. there was no warning to her might. no tremble in the earth like the shudders before a volcanic eruption. it simply is. vision tunneling, they watch the woman who had hit them die, in some sort of morbid slowness and bubbling humor. I guess not everyone gets their revenge, they think, struggling back to their feet.

          it’s then that they see hekate move, and their heart drops to their stomach. “ NO! ”

          to his credit, col doesn’t waver, even though hekate looms over him in all her seething fury. his gaze is unreadable, and simply flicks between hekate and iovita before his dark brows raise, as if to say oh, will you? he’s brazen, and it makes iovita want to laugh. he got that from me.

          and then the world is gone, and the warm sun of positano is peering through the windows of inter mundos.

-

          reaching up, iovita moves her hand away from their face, fingers tightening around her wrist. their gaze is as inscrutable as col’s was - cold steel to his icy blue. “ I heard what you said to him, ” they say, slowly. heat is starting to prickle into their fingers, warming against her skin. as much as they love her, and as much as they know that col is capable of terrible things, it doesn’t make anything sit easier within their mind. it’s more like the feeling of being pulled in two different directions, until they think they might tear right down the middle. 

          “ I don’t ever want to hear you threaten my son again. ” the heat in their hand is growing with their frustration. the pool of light of the floor lamp nearby is starting to slink from ceiling to wall to floor as the metal stem of it softens and droops. “ if you did anything to him… I’d… I’d… ” what? break completely? grieve, properly and finally? they let go of her hand, shoving it away as they do. it’s blatantly obvious what kind of place they’re in, confused and circling like a lion in a tiny cage, looking for anything to take their frustrations out on. 

          “ ... you wouldn’t even give me something to bury. ” // @solaoccasum​

[diceriadelluntore]

Storia Di Musica #132 - Shawn Phillips, Second Contribution, 1971

Se esistesse una fantomatica classifica degli artisti più talentuosi ma più dimenticati, l’artista di oggi starebbe, a mio parere, nelle prime posizioni. Shawn Phillips è semisconosciuto ai più, nonostante sia uno dei più grandi cantautori degli ultimi 50 anni. Texano, Shawn è figlio di uno scrittore e giornalista, James Atlee Phillips e nipote di un pezzo grosso della CIA, David Atlee Phillips, che fu accusato di essere uno dei cospiratori che armarono la mano di Lee Oswald per uccidere il Presidente Kennedy, accusa che fu ritrattata. Vive una infanzia ed una adolescenza avventurosa, passando di Stato in Stato, e acquisendo una passione per la chitarra, soprattutto per quella a 12 corde, di cui diventerà un virtuoso. Esordisce come cantante nel 1964 con I’m A Loner, primo disco in cui  esibisce la sua abilità con la chitarra. Si trasferisce giovanissimo in Inghilterra, dove a metà degli anni ’60 è strettissimo collaboratore di Donovan: con il folletto gallese suonerà nei dischi degli anni ‘60,  alcuni davvero di grande successo come Fairytale, Sunshine Superman e Mellow Yellow, e Donovan gli riconoscerà la paternità di uno dei suoi classici, Season Of The Witch, una delle canzoni del decennio. Phillips è corteggiatissimo come session man e cantante per i concerti dal vivo, partecipa addirittura allo storico Festival sull’isola di Wight nel 1970. È anche tra i papabili protagonisti della trasposizione cinematografica di Jesus Christ Superstar, ruolo a cui però rinuncia. Insieme al suo amico, e collaboratore musicale, Paul Buckmaster  (violoncellista nella Third Ear Band e su On The Corner di Miles Davis, e nel palmares arrangiatore per Elton John, per Space Oddity di David Bowie e nel leggendario Sticky Fingers dei Rolling Stones), aveva in mente un progetto, dalle premesse sensazionali, insieme ad Eric Clapton sul blues acustico, purtroppo mai venuto alla luce. Dalla metà degli anni ’60 si trasferisce a Positano, dove vive per anni, definiti da lui indimenticabili, quando la perla della Costiera Amalfitana era un villaggio di pescatori, lontano dal glamour di oggi. La musica di Phillips non è un semplice folk rock “classico”, ma parte dalle sue abilità chitarristiche per aprirsi a contaminazioni jazz, funky, addirittura progressive, che si uniscono alla sua voce austera ed ammaliante, un prodigio della natura capace di cambiare registro in un lampo. Il primo grande disco è del 1970, pensato e scritto a Positano, e si intitola Contribution: i 7 brani, magici, magnetici, rendono giustizia alla sua poesia e alla sua capacità, per me unica, di emozionare. Da ricordare lo stupendo brano Man Hole Covered Wagon, dall’inizio country e vivace. L’album non entra il classifica, ma ottiene giudizi molto positivi, e spinto dalla sua casa editrice, la A&M, nello stesso anno Phillips registra la prosecuzione di Contribution. Second Contribution, che uscirà nel 1971, ha una magica copertina, dove Phillips, come un mago misterioso, è ripreso di spalle, in mantello nero, capelli lunghi perfettamente allineati, e imbraccia la sua preziosa chitarra, in un paesaggio desertico. Musicalmente il disco è invece di una floridità sensazionale. Con la preziosa e sontuosa produzione di Buckmatser il disco si apre con il primo grande gioiello: She Was Waiting For Her Mother At The Station In Torino, And You Know We Love You Baby, But It’s Getting Too Heavy To Laugh (a lungo detentore di “titolo più lungo nella storia della musica”), conosciuto come Woman, è brano mozzafiato, dal testo profondissimo e poetico e dalla melodia emozionante, che strizza l’occhio alla musica nera e al rock più sofisticato. La varietà dell’album è sorprendente, a partire da uno strumentale memorabile, F Sharp Splendor, e Phillips spinge l’acceleratore musicale con Keep On e Sleepwalker, torna rockeggiante in Song For Sagittarians che si unisce a Lookin' Up Looking' Down in un mix tra Stax sound e il pop più sofisticato, è quasi epico nella stupenda Schmaltz Walts, è delicato nella conclusiva Steel Eyes, storia di un amore fuggiasco ed estemporaneo, che ha un bellissimo verso finale:”è stato bello, sulla strada del ritorno, che tu mi abbia desiderato/amore fugace, addio”. Ma l’album è conosciuto per la sensazionale The Ballad Of Casey Diess, che leggenda vuole sia basata su una storia tragica vera capitata ad un suo amico: testo con echi ed allegorie mitologici, la sua chitarra magica, la voce mai così mistica e profonda, con finale che cresce di intensità, ne fanno un capolavoro assoluto. Phillips pubblicherà una terza parte italiana, Collaboration (1971) altrettanto bello e con almeno due brani notevolissimi (Moonshine e la bellissima Springwind). La sua carriera continuerà con buoni album per tutti gli anni ’70, mantenendo un buon livello complessivo e con collaborazioni prestigiose (Burt Bacharach ed altri). Poi negli anni ‘80 un quasi silenzio assoluto. Continuerà anche a viaggiare, stabilendosi prima in Sudafrica, dove farà il vigile del fuoco, per poi tornare nel Kentucky, negli Stati Uniti. Oggi continua a fare concerto dal vivo e a riproporre i suoi classici. Bill Graham, il più grande impresario del rock e papà dei due teatri Fillmore (East e West) lo definì “Il più grande segreto celato dal music business”. In una intervista di anni fa alla domanda “Qual è l’aspetto più straordinario dell’essere un artista?” rispose: Essere consapevoli di possedere l’abilità per creare qualcosa che nessun altro avrebbe potuto creare. E le sue abilità sono state grandissime. Da scoprire.