B A R E - Journal

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V I E W; U N C ON C E A L E D ; U NA D OR N E D ; P L A I N A journal of fashion and culture. Issue 1.

OP E N

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V I E W; U N C ON C E A L E D ; U NA D OR N E D ; P L A I N

I S S U E

1

Founder and Creative Director

CLAUDIA BRUNO Editors in Chief

COURTNEY SAUNDERS E M I LY L U N D I N Art Directors

ALEX ARﾃ・Z P E P E V I L L AV E R D E SUBSCRIBE

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W W W . B A R E - J O U R N A L . C O M

ﾂｩ 2014 Bare Journal Bare Journal is published biannually by Claudia Bruno Design BV. Printed by Drukkerij Aeroprint, Ouderkerk, The Netherlands. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is strictly prohibited. All prices are correct but subject to change.

ISSN 2352-1473 Advertising info@bare-journal.com Distribution info@bare-journal.com Publication design by Claudia Bruno and Alex Arﾃ｡ez.

Cover photograph by Jem Mitchell.

Back cover poem reprinted with permission of Barbara Cully and Jackleg Press.

Bare Journal 41 Frans Haalstraat Amsterdam, The Netherlands info@bare-journal.com www.bare-journal.com International Distribution

by Pineapple Media Ltd (www.pineapple-media.com)

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T E A L L T R U BU T E LL S L A E M I L Y

L L THE T H T IT N T

D I C K I N S O N

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W E L C O M E

T O

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BA R E

Bare is a global fashion, culture and arts magazine dedicated to the unadorned moment of truth, an ode to the raw beauty of realism and simplicity.

Here you will find imagery, artistry, and storytelling with no creative brief, no client, no shimmer, no patina, no retouch – no rules.

Bare is free form and unmediated. Photographers direct their shoots. An architect considers his inspiration. Two filmmakers contemplate influences. A writer confesses. A designer delves into creative rituals. In these pages process is as fascinating as product. In Bare, our subjects tell their own stories. In this way our readers are free to draw their own conclusions. Bare is simple discovery without summary or synthesis.

Our first issue features unscripted explorations by some of our favorite photographers.

Jem Mitchell goes into the wild. Billy Kidd searches the face. Kalle Gustafsson spends an afternoon on Stockholm’s archipelago. Laurie Frankel transforms a home into a fanciful greenhouse. Chris Craymer reveals domestic, intimate hours. Barbara Iweins draws a bath.

Bare is independently published and owned. We live in Amsterdam, London, Paris, Barcelona, New York City, Berlin, Montana, Los Angeles and San Francisco.

Drop us a line. We’d love to meet for coffee. (Black. No sugar.)

Thank you for your time.

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C O N T R I B U T O R S

PEPE HEYKOOP

INGA POWILLEIT

(Artist in the Studio) is a Dutch designer who founded his studio straight after his graduation from the Design Academy Eindhoven in 2008. In his Amsterdam studio, he develops low-tech techniques, incorporating handmade and recycled elements into singular, striking pieces.

(Artist in the Studio) is a Dutch photographer known internationally for her portraiture and clear eye for capturing personalized spaces.

B A R B A R A C U L LY

BARBARA IWEINS

(Under the Hours) is a poet who divides her time between Arizona and Baja, Mexico. She is the author of Under the Hours (Jackleg Press, 2012); two poetry collections from Penguin Books: Desire Reclining (2003) and The New Intimacy (1997); and two from Kore Press: Shoreline Series (1997) and That Place Where (2011).

(The Bath) is a Flemish photographer who lives in Brussels and Amsterdam. Her book of expressive portraits, Street Style Memory Game, has sold widely around the world.

(Horticulture) is a floral stylist in San Francisco who forages her materials in friends’ gardens and from an extended network of organic farmers surrounding the city.

Her clients include Chez Panisse, Bar Agricole, Bar Tartine, Camino, Peko Peko.

CHRIS CRAYMER (Under the Hours) is a native Londoner and a self-taught photographer who has never stopped expanding the boundaries of genre. In addition to a vast list of editorials and clients, he has published two books of photography: Romance and In London.

LAURIE FRANKEL (Horticulture) is an award-winning still-life, interiors, food, and kids photographer based in San Francisco. Her background as an art director aids her ability to create dynamic, communicative, and novel work, whatever the genre.

AMY GRAPPELL (Quadrangle) Her films have won awards at festivals internationally. She is developing a series for HBO, where her documentary Quadrangle was broadcast.

BASTIAN GÜNTHER (Death of a Dead Man) is an award-winning writer/director of narrative features and documentaries. His latest film, Houston, which premiered at Sundance in 2013, has been called “a modern Western.”

B I L LY K I D D (Interview) is a photographer who lives in Brooklyn, New York. In addition to his advertising and editorial clients, his portraits include George Bush, Jr., Jeff Koons, Zooey Deschanel, James Franco, Paul Dano, Saoirse Ronan, Collier Schorr, Pharrell Williams, and many more.

CHRIS KRAGER (Aspiration and Architecture) is an architect, builder, and entrepreneur whose firm KRDB is based in Austin, Texas.

His architectural endeavors focus on making good design financially accessible.

FA N N Y L AT O U R - L A M B E R T (Le Weekend) was born and raised in Paris. She has worked with several international magazines such as GQ, Tank, Lurve, ID, Libé Next, M Le Monde, and has worked commercially with Nike and Puma, among others.

K A L L E G U S TA F S S O N

E M I LY L U N D I N

(Idyll) is a Swedish director and photographer. Gustafsson is represented by Skarp Agent and shoots both print and motion for an advertising client list that includes Paul Smith, Gant, Tod´s, Orient Express, Hackett and editorial clients GQ, Marie Claire, Mr. Porter, and Monocle among others.

(The Sundress) Her fiction has appeared in Asymptote, Oregon Literary Review, Cutthroat, SAND and other literary journals. She is finishing a novel set in Mississippi, where she grew up.

N I C K H E AV I C A N (The Swimmer) His editorial and film work has been seen in V Magazine, The Last Magazine, Dossier Journal, ID Magazine, Elle US, and CR Fashion Book.

His client list includes Tory Burch, Ralph Lauren, MAC Cosmetics, YSL, and The Brooklyn Academy of Music.

JEM MITCHELL (Wilderness) is acclaimed for his refreshingly pure style of photography. His subtle yet strikingly fresh images can be seen in editorials for Vogue Japan, Vogue China, Vogue Russia, British Vogue, 10 Magazine, Mixt(e) Magazine, Harper’s Bazaar, GQ Style and GQ.

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LOUESA ROEBUCK

B R I T TA N I SONNENBERG (Bad Hair Daze) Her fiction and nonfiction have appeared in The O’Henry Prize Stories 2008, Ploughshares, Time Magazine, NPR and elsewhere. Her first novel, Home Leave, comes out in June with Grand Central Publishing.

KIRA VON EICHEL (Bathing) is a German-Canadian writer and illustrator who is currently working on her first book. She has contributed to The Paris Review and lives in Brooklyn with her husband and two children.

MARIA ROBLEDO (Let’s Pretend We’re Bunny Rabbits) is a photographer known for her sumptuous still life imagery. Her magnetic images have captivated longtime collaborators Ralph Lauren, Bergdorf Goodman, and Martha Stewart.

Her Instagram portraits of Cornelius have many followers, and a book is forthcoming.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS / ISSU E 1 B A R E Fashion

WILDERNESS

Photographed by

J E M

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M I T C H E L L

B A R E Story

BAD HAIR DAZE

By

BR I T TA N I

40

S ON N E N BE RG

B A R E Interview

B I L LY K I D D

From a conversation with

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BA R E

B A R E Story

T H E BAT H

Photographed by

BA R BA R A

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I W E I N S

B A R E Story

BAT H I N G

By

K I R A

VON

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E IC H E L

B A R E Fashion

ARCHIPEL AGO

Photographed by

K A L L E

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G U S TA F F S ON

B A R E Design

A SP I R AT I ON & ARCHITECTURE

by

C H R I S

K R AG E R

82

B A R E Fashion

H O RT I C U LT U R E

Photographed by

L AU R I E

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F R A N K E L

B A R E Interview

LOUESA ROEBUCK

From a conversation with

BA R E

18

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WHY WE WEAR: THE SUNDRESS

By

E M I LY

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L U N DI N

B A R E Fashion

UNDER THE HOURS

Photographed by

C H R I S

C R AYM E R

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B A R E Notebook

DE AT H OF A DE A D M A N

By

BAS T IA N

G Ü N T H E R

THE ARTIST IN THE STUDIO: PEPE HEYKO OP

Photographed by

I N G A

P OW I L L E I T

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B A R E Fashion

THE SWIMMER

Photographed by

N I C K

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H E AV IC A N

B A R E Notebook

Q UA D R A N G L E

by

A M Y

148

G R A PPE L L

B A R E Fashion

LE WEEKEND

Photographed by

FA N N Y

L AT OU R-L A M BE RT

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B A R E Story

LET’S PRETEND WE’RE BUNNY RABBITS

Photographed by

M A R IA

ROB L E D O

COVER: Orange tweed coat by PA U L S M I T H

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B A R E Fashion

J O N AT H A N S A U N D E R S EUDON CHOI ERES PA M E L A M A N N B E YON D R E T RO CELINE PA U L S M I T H ROK S A N DA I L I N C I C MOSCHINO CHEAP & CHIC MIU MIU M AT T H E W W I L L I A M S O N COS RO C HAS J U S T C AVA L L I CHRISTOPHER CANE DIA N E VON F U R ST E N B E RG

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W

I

L

D

E

JEM MITCHELL

R

N

E

S

Protographer

S

Embroidered wool and leather coat by J O N AT H A N S A U N D E R S Brown leather skirt by E U D O N C H O I Nude bra by E R E S Striped tights by PA M E L A M A N N

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Orange tweed coat by PA U L S M I T H

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Vintage cream mohair sweater from B E YO N D R E T R O Cream skirt by C E L I N E

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Cream ribbed sweater by C E L I N E

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Grey tweed dress by R O K S A N D A I L I N C I C

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Orange tweed checked coat by PA U L S M I T H

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Black and white striped sweater (wornSback W EtoAfront) T E R American Apparel

by M O S C H I N O C H E A P & C H I C

J E A N S Te n u e d e N i m e s

Blue and black polka dot silk underskirt by M I U M I US H O E S E s s e n t i a l s

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Grey mohair sweater by C O S Mustard trousers by R O C H A S Petrol green knitted tank top by C O S Printed velvet trousers by J U S T C AVA L L I

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Black silk shirt by D I A N E V O N F U R S T E N B E R G Floral embroidered sheer skirt by C H R I S T O P H E R K A N E

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Black wool sailor-back dress by M I U M I U

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Mustard dress by M AT T H E W W I L L I A M S O N

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WILDERNESS Photographer

JEM MITCHELL Fashion Editor

JOANNA SCHLENZKA Hair Stylist

KARIN BIGLER Manicurist

ADAM SLEE Models

Photo Assistants

A N A S TA S I A I VA N O VA HANNAH HOLMAN

GARETH HORTON JAMES DEACON

Casting Director

Digital Operator

JAX HARNEY

SHAUN BEYEN

Assistant Stylist

MHAIRI GRAHAM

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B A R E Story

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D B A H

A

I R A D Z E By

B R I T TA N I SONNENBERG

MON DAY:

HA I R

C U T

A.

Decide to be disciplined and stick to a trim for once, rather than whacking your hair off for dramatic effect, as you are prone. Enter salon in downtown Berlin that trustworthy friend has recommended. Find the vibe inside to be hip but not alarmingly so: the electronica is inoffensive, the lights muted and optimistic.

B.

Enjoy chatting with the charming Kiwi stylist (soft, subtly sculptured blond hair; reassuring blue eyes), avoid making predictable sheep-shearing jokes. Bask in the easy back and forth. Silently recall last haircut, in which the German stylist, sporting a severe chin length bob, gave a curt “Hi” and that was it, for the remaining half hour. No “How long have you been in town?” or “How much product do you usually use?” For the Southerner in you, such silence was sacrilege and infinitely more awkward than small talk. Thankfully, no uncomfortable pauses occur today. You and the New Zealander, who we’ll call Jack, move from discussing vacation plans to comparing rednecks in the US vs. New Zealand (in NZ, he says, they’re called “bogans”) and mullets, which he reports are beloved among bogans. Smile at your reflection once Jack finishes blowing the layered tresses dry.

C .

Has anyone investigated mirrors in hair salons, to see if something fishy is going on?

I.e. how a new haircut looks great in the salon mirrors, and downright awful in your own bathroom? Is it possible that there’s some Fun House technology at work—remember the skinny/fat mirrors?—to make your haircut look extremely flattering when in fact it looks...

D.

Like a mullet. Apparently, when Jack said “layers,” what he meant was “mullet.” Classic cross-cultural miscommunication. A not uncommon confusion between British vs. American vs. NZ English. Where public school for them means private school for us, etc. Or maybe it was your own fault, for bringing up mullets in the first place. Maybe it’s impossible for a hairdresser to discuss, at length, one hair style, without proceeding to shape the hair they’re working on into that very style. Like trying to sing “Stand By Your Man” while “Hit the Road, Jack” is playing.

T U E S D AY: P O S T - H A I R C U T A.

Decide that the mullet will not do as a do. Confer with other expat friends who inform you it’s a common issue in Berlin, although they insist that it has more to do with local taste than Down Under aesthetics: “Germans love a mullet.” Friends provide recommendation for a hair stylist who they swear will solve the problem. Give stylist a call, make an appointment for Thursday.

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W

E

D

N

E

S

D

A

Y

A . Hair salon calls back, says stylist is sick, that the 2:30 appointment on

Thursday will have to be canceled.

B . Decide that your mullet is fated, and potentially a new source of strength,

like Samson, and hang up.

T A .

B.

H

U

R

S

D

A

Y

At 2:30, the original time for the haircut, you receive a call from a local landline number.

Transcription of phone call You: Hello? Who is this?

Caller: It’s Marie! Are you coming?

You: Coming? No, I thought you were sick.

Caller: I’m not sick—who said that?

You: A woman called me yesterday, saying you were sick and that the appointment was cancelled.

Caller: Well, I don’t know who that was. Can you come now?

You: Not really. I rescheduled my whole day.

Caller: But everyone’s waiting on you.

You: Well… (trying to picture who “everyone” could be—an impatient shampooer, neurotic receptionist, stressed stylist, type-A hair sweeper? Your voice rises a little, petulant at being chided) Can’t we just reschedule?

Caller: (note of sarcasm) We can try… exactly when would be best for you?

You: I don’t know, sometime tomorrow or Friday. Or next week?

Caller: (more than just a note of sarcasm now) Can you be more specific?

You: Ten. Caller: Ten won’t work, that’s when the cleaner’s coming, and the apartment will be unavailable.

You: (Apartment? Is this some kind of sketchy hipster pop-up salon?) Ummm.

Caller: Look, maybe I should just talk to everyone here and see if there’s another time you can come do the recording.

*

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*

LIKE A TERRIBLE DAY DAWNING, YOU SLOWLY REALIZE THAT MARIE IS NOT FROM THE HAIR SALON, BUT THE DIRECTOR OF A RECORDING STUDIO WHERE YOU OCCASIONALLY WORK AS A VOICE ACTOR. You: (Fuck.)

Caller: Does that sound okay?

You: (Fuck, fuck, fuck!) Oh, yes—of course. Marie, I’m so sorry! I just realized—I thought that you were calling from the hair salon.

Caller: What? What hair salon?

You: Never mind. Anyway. I really apologize.

Caller: (Coldly.) It’s okay. This kind of thing happens. We’ll get someone else to read.

And don’t worry—this incident doesn’t mean I won’t ever book you again.

You: I hope not! I promise I’m not usually this scattered, I— Caller: We really need to get started. Bye! You: (Fuck.) Bye—

**

**

HER TONE SAYS THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT THIS MEANS. 44

C.

After hanging up the phone, you feel curiously light-hearted. Normally, you would be crushed by your faux pas, berating yourself, but now you feel like your mullet is urging a different reaction. Who cares? It says, in an astonishingly convincing New Zealand accent. She was a hobbit, anyways. You begin to correct the mullet, reminding it that though The Lord of the Rings was shot in New Zealand, there is no reason why New Zealanders would now regularly refer to Tolkien’s characters in everyday speech. But the mullet is still going: We told her off, eh? Nice work… let’s call it a day. And what are you wearing? Let’s get you into something more comfortable. Acid-wash jeans, maybe a Megadeth t-shirt. You hesitate, saying that it’s only noon, you still have a lot of work to do. Don’t be a bogan, the mullet sneers, and suggests the two of you hunt down a tattoo parlor and a pizza joint. You begin to protest when you realize that the mullet is right. There is nothing you want more right now than a tribal tatt and a meat lover’s special. And just like that, the two of you are off: strutting through Mitte’s stylish streets, your mullet blowing in the wind, humming November Rain.

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B A R E Interview

B A RE

WITH

BILLY KIDD

On Portraiture

WHEN PEOPLE START TO FEEL EASY ENOUGH TO BE WHO THEY REALLY ARE, THAT’S WHEN SOMETHING INTERESTING HAPPENS.

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Billy Kidd, 1980, is a fashion, portrait and celebrity photographer. He grew up in Phoenix, Arizona, but currently works and lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Excerpts from a conversation with BARE. When I shoot… the process is organic. My subjects and I get to know each other.

I get really nervous when I shoot. Even though I shoot every other day, I still get nervous. So I try to calm myself down… I try to talk to people as much as possible. So we’re both comfortable. We sit down and talk and all that kind of stuff. I shoot a lot. I shoot a low depth of field. Usually lots of motion. I have to tell them to think of it as video rather than a still photograph. I have them continually move and move and move. They’ll feel more comfortable and will start doing their own thing. They’ll walk around. Spin. Fall. They’ll get into the act. When people start to feel easy enough to be who they really are, that’s when something interesting happens. The process of two people getting together and making something new. That’s what it’s about.

I’m interested in transience and how we define beauty and how it changes over time. Everybody sees something different when they look at my images. I don’t like to talk about what I see. I like to hear about what other people see. I love it when people see something that I never saw before. It allows me to see something new. That’s part of why I am a photographer.

I’m interested in transience and how we define beauty and how it changes over time.

Irving Penn is one of the most brilliant photographers of all time. The way he could take portraits of people. His light was just so genius and his still-life – breathtaking. He could be taking a picture of a pearl, but then there would be a beetle in the frame. Why? We have no clue. He didn’t do many interviews.

He was a very quiet person. You could take away whatever you wanted to take away. That was just brilliant. I moved to New York from Arizona on August 26th, 2009, because I wanted to assist Irving Penn. He passed away a month after I moved here.

I shoot digital.

I love digital. Digital is here now. It’s the medium.

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If I can do it, anybody can do it. I’m just a photographer.

Being in New York changes you. Sends you in amazing new directions. I wanted to be a fashion photographer so I moved to New York. That’s when I realized that I knew nothing. Knew nothing about fashion. Knew nothing about art. And I had so much to learn. It’s all here.

There are a lot of Billy Kidds out there.

There’s the skier. He’s an Olympic gold medalist. I haven’t met him but I would love to. There’s a magician. There’s even another photographer in Panama City, Florida – that’s where I was born. There’s also a radio DJ down there in Florida named Billy Kidd.

I shoot digital. I love digital. Digital is here now. It’s the medium. Now the camera is on the phone and everybody’s taking pictures. There is a saturation of images.

Out of the thousand people who are yelling, maybe five people have a great idea.

All of this is a good thing. If a thousand people are yelling now you just have to be more creative. You have to be better. Out of the thousand people who are yelling maybe five people have a great idea. You have to keep pushing forward and trying to be better and better and better.

It’s a matter of being dedicated to what you want to do. I don’t go to parties.

I don’t go out. I spend most of my time shooting and reading and doing whatever I can do to spur creativity. Some people get lost in New York. Partying.

Going crazy. You always need to focus on what you came here to do. You have to become centered, always focused on your work.

If I can do it anybody can do it. I’m just a photographer. I’m just trying to make something cool.

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B A R E Story

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The Bath

Photographer

BA R BA R A I W E I N S

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T H E BAT H Photographer

BARBARA IWEINS Models

A A LTJ E K R A M E R THESSA SNIP Post Production

L I L I A N VA N D O N G E N T O R M A N

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B A R E Story

I DON’T SHOWER EVERY DAY. I BATHE. IT’S MY HOLDOUT. IT’S HOW I STAVE OFF TIME, MODERNITY.

It’s late, but I’m finally alone, and it’s been too long since I bathed. The children are asleep. The Wordsworth my mother once slipped me on a piece of paper floats into mind, The world is too much with us; late and soon. I peel off the socks I borrowed from my husband and turn on the faucet of the tub, place the stopper in the drain. While it fills, I finish undressing. It will take a while. My bathtub is long and deep and heavy. It is made of solid porcelain two inches thick. It’s old and white with a few tiny cracks that look like yellowed bruises. By the rounded edges, I guess that it could be from the 1920s or 30s. I don’t really know, it’s just a feeling I have. You visit a friend in his apartment, and someone says in passing, “Oh yeah, this building was built in the 30s,” and as they say it, you’re glancing through the bathroom door and you see that tub, long and deep and so white that blue light shines from it, except for it’s tiny yellow bruises, which you don’t see, because you only notice those details when you’re lying in a tub.

Our bathtub was bought at a salvage yard in Stamford, Connecticut. On the way to somewhere up the east coast, we pulled off I-95 when we saw a sign advertising salvaged wares: Stamford Wrecking. It was a series of massive, drafty halls in a warehouse, one after the other filled with marble mantels tilted against one another, six-paneled doors stacked like dominos, stair bannisters and newels piled in rows on the floor. Our tub sat in the middle of one of these freezing hangar-like rooms, its left and front ends ragged, cleaved from the bathroom walls it had been built into in the 1920s or 1930s.

I wanted it. In Germany, where I spent half my childhood, the tubs were old and deep and there were no overflow drains in the places we lived and visited, so you could fill the bath to the brim and swim, submerging and coming up for air like a seal, making the water fly in great waves over the edge, hoping no one would come in and see the puddles on the floor. This was a bathtub like that.

The bathtub from Stamford Wrecking was cheaper than the cost of delivery. When it got to our new house, a falling-down brownstone in Brooklyn, it was too heavy for anyone to carry up the stairs.

We had saved money on everything: the house in its dilapidated state, the lowest-bid contractor, the salvaged pieces.

But for that bathtub we had to hire a crane. Hoisted up, it swayed colossally in the air and drifted through the 4th floor

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window like a majestic ocean liner into port. And then, there it was. Perfect and long and deep and porcelain. We built the bathroom around it, and because we did so cheaply and naively, it’s a strange bathroom, with strange angles.

bathes in salvaged bathtubs, I think. If I had a different tub or used my shower, would they be cherry red?

There’s a magazine on the floor beside the bath. When I pick it up, the spots where my wet fingers touch ripple immediately, I have eight bottles of bath salts and oils lining the shelf behind and the print from the other side becomes visible. It’s telling that tub, but the only one I use is lavender. It turns the water me where I should go this season, which concerts and shows ultramarine. The sharp, clean scent works like they say it will to attend, which art to see. I feel tired and too hot. I forgot to on the bottle. It promises to cleanse and relax, strip me of the see the once-in-a-lifetime retrospective that I shouldn’t have day’s jostling and bumping. I climb in. I’ve run the bath too missed. I turn the page, and there is a woman who has cherry hot, so I stand lifting one foot and then the other, dipping them red nailpolish, famous for a moment because she had an affair piecemeal until I can tolerate the sting. I lower myself in slowly, with a politician. What color were his wife’s nails? sitting in a crouch, centimeter by centimeter immersing naked skin into the indigo water until I lie in this long tub. And I am Here we are told to shower every day – once, twice, any time long, so my head rests on the vinyl pillow suction-cupped to we have broken a sweat or travelled too long. I don’t shower the back, and my feet rest against the front, toes peeking above every day. I bathe. It’s my holdout. It’s how I stave off time, the water line. A translucent white film, some soap from the modernity. The world is too much with us; late and soon. I bath oil, rests on the surface of the water. The residue circles always seem to be too late. I need it to stop so that I can catch the tops of my kneecaps and is white on my dark pubic hair, up. People are moving too fast. Menschheit is the German tightly curled from the damp air just above the water. I fill the word for mankind. It always seemed so mysterious to me when tub all the way because I can; there is no overflow drain. My I was small, this word for all of us as one entity. I picture that breasts float and the soap clings to my nipples, turning them entity pushing and thronging, pressing forward against the white. If I hold my arms still, my hands drift up too, emerging plate glass of now. They want more time to do more with. They from the blue bathwater as if carved in marble. The curve and want faster connections and they want more information. They the sheen are like Bernini’s St. Theresa, those hands floating up are clean from their quick daily showers. And yet they haven’t from draping arms. changed that much. The powerful men are still sleeping with the women with cherry red nails.

My bath oil is German, and it’s the same one we had on the ledge behind the tub when I was small. Lavendel, Melisse, We are still in the muck, mankind. Less time, more time, we’d Arnikum. Over there, these cured our ills. When we were still be in the muck. Perhaps I fool myself that if everyone took young, they rubbed arnica oil on our bruises and brewed a bath, the world would be less intrusive and demanding. Then hops tea to help us sleep. When my daughter was younger, again, it’s all I know. I splash my face once more. The porcelain she climbed into my bath, waiting until it had cooled to a is so thick that it retains the heat, and now I’m too hot. It’s time just-tolerable temperature. This tub is so big, we could lie side to step out of the bath. by side, closely. The water displaced, rose to the very edge, threatening to spill over. My son, younger still, would climb in BAT H I N G after his sister had left and sit astride my belly to play pattyB Y K I R A VON E I C H E L cake. Distracted by my floating breasts, he would grab at them, laughing.

The water is still so hot that my face is wet with perspiration.

I cup my hands and gather water to wash over it. My fingers press into my eyes to wipe away the moisture. I open them and look at my toes and the remnants of a pedicure: mauve-grey, like a bruise. Maybe that’s the color chosen by a woman who

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B A R E Fashion

ACNE STUDIOS M E S DA M E S STELL A MCCARTNEY H A N K Y PA N K Y BAU M U N D P F E R D G A RT E N D AV I D A T B Y A L E X A N D E R WA N G COS U N I F O R M S F O R T H E D E D I C AT E D

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ARCHIPELAGO

Protographer

K A L L E G U S TA F S S O N

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Blouse and knit sweater by A C N E S T U D I O S Skirt by M E S D A M E S

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Blouse by S T E L L A M C C A R T N E Y Underwear by H A N K Y P A N K Y

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Blouse by S T E L L A M C C A R T N E Y

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Lace dress by B A U M U N D P F E R D G A R T E N Sweater by D AV I D A

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Knit sweater by T B Y A L E X A N D E R WA N G Knit sweater by C O S

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ARCHIPEL AGO Photographer

KALLE GUSTAFSSON Fashion Editor

TEREZA ORTIZ Models

Photographer Assistant

LONE PRAESTO LINNEA REGNANDER K A R O L I N E B J O R N E LY K K E

SARA BILLE Hair Stylist

DEJAN CEKANOVIC

Casting

Make-up Artist

LOUISE HALL

SOPHIA ERIKSEN

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B A R E Design

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Founder of design/build firm KRDB and the modular housing company, MA MODULAR.

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I T E

The term “Midcentury,” as it relates to design and architecture, has become a bit threadbare in the last decade. As a general, catch-all adjective to describe an aesthetic associated with the likes of the Eames’, Eva Zeisel and Raymond Loewy, it has become a mere shadow of the substance once embodied in the works of the pioneers of that era.

was afforded the opportunity to see and study firsthand some of the most seminal, yet modest work of this period by the likes of Richard Neutra, Craig Ellwood, Quincy Jones, and my personal favorite, Rudolph Schindler. Here was a city where these beloved buildings were integral to the urban fabric and beautifully worn with the patina of a half-century of good use. Like the city of Los Angeles, this is an architecture that is open and ambitious, connected and provisory, and most importantly, yours to inhabit as you see fit (but never letting you forget the time of day, year, or place). Why didn’t anyone I knew live like this?

What has been lost in the invocation of this term are the egalitarian underpinnings of the period. Whether it was graphic design, fashion, furniture, music or architecture, the spirit of the time was one of accessibility. In architecture this was best embodied in the Case Study program sponsored by John Entenza and California Arts and Architecture Magazine, and even more so in the work of the California developer Joseph Eichler.

Both endeavors utilized the medium of photography to capture the essence of how the modern American family would live.

Unlike much architectural photography, which fetishizes form, the photos of Julius Schulman and Ernie Braun backgrounded the buildings and emphasized the life that was allowed for in this exciting new space. These were not buildings that were just admired from afar, or seen for the price of admission; rather you could own one yourself.

I started my design/build practice less than a year out of graduate school with the primary intention of picking up the strands of this legacy. As an ex-Catholic I’ve had a bit of exposure to proselytizing, and I was intent to create new audiences and communities of – and for – good space. While some art forms may “require” a learned ear, or a trained eye, the beauty of architecture is that we all respond to the quality of our built environment, and it, in turn, affects our disposition and our connection to the world.

Impatient and entrepreneurial, my firm speculated, buying land, designing houses, building them and selling them. The response exceeded expectations and I began to think about how, like our predecessor Joseph Eichler, this vision could be realized on a broader scale. Again I found myself returning to yet another early-modern pre-occupation: pre-fabricated housing. In order for our small design/build firm to manifest our

As a fourth generation Detroit-er, of working class stock, my path in the world of architecture quickly took me to the front stoop of this populist movement, literally. In 1999, while still in graduate school, I worked for 6 months in Los Angeles, birthplace of modern residential architecture, and home to the largest concentration of buildings inspired through this era. I

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Photo by E R N E S T B R A U N

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THIS ISN’T JUST SOME HOME, THIS IS YOUR HOME.

projects in other markets, at modest budgets, we created ma modular. Ma takes the founding principles of our practice – affordable, accessible architecture – and merges them with the existing infrastructure of factory-built housing. In this way I feel we have come full circle to the spirit of early modernism. Embedded across disciplines was a faith and optimism that with a little ingenuity, the machine (modern) age could be turned in our favor and create a better, more fulfilling life for all. The images of Schulman or Braun undoubtedly ooze cool and/or sexy, but this is a surface read. What really makes them appealing is the aspiration: this isn’t just some home, this is your home.

B A R E Fashion

E R I C A TA N O V Z E RO + M A R IA C OR N E JO JUST IN CASE S T R AT H C O N A S T O C K I N G S M I NA PE R HON E N

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L AU R I E F R A N K E L

Dress by E R I C A TA N O V

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B A R E Interview

Louesa Roebuck is a floral stylist in San Francisco who forages her materials in friends’ gardens and from an extended network of organic farmers surrounding the city.

Excerpts from a conversation with BARE.

Please don’t call me a florist.

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It’s so funny. I don’t even know what to call what I do. Please don’t call me a florist. I like to call my work “Foraged Flora.” I create environments, stage installations. I love to work with Laurie. (Laurie Frankel, the photographer.) It’s very simpatico how we see things. I work with native, seasonal plants. I’m drawn to landscape and to the natural world as an experience.

I forage all over the place. I have my favorite haunts. Friends call to tell me they have plants for me. One friend always saves passion flowers for me. I have a huge radius.

I’ll go anywhere. It might be a pretty garden. Or an abandoned lot in a weird industrial landscape where you wouldn’t expect to find something beautiful growing wild.

When you focus on what you can forage and find, every day is different. A treasure hunt.

I worked at Chez Panisse, so a lot of my training comes from that experience. That place changes everyone. It’s about looking around you, seeing what’s in your environment, and using ingredients on hand. In Northern California it’s usually beautiful… growing and seeding, abundant. We live in the Garden of Eden.

Everything in the story was foraged. We shot the story in my little cottage in Stinson Beach. A friend called to tell me he was cutting back his Gunnera. It’s an Amazonian river plant that grows well in this area. The huge, crazy prehistoric-looking leaves. They can grow to 20 feet tall sometimes. The roses are from my garden. The wild fennel and sweet peas grow by the ocean here.

I try to work against the uniformity you’ll find in the flower market. Everything 18 inches. Everything dosed with pesticides. Maybe that’s why I’m attracted to tiny flowers or very huge, oversized plants. Wild things. I love to work with plants that people don’t think of as floral… date palms, persimmons, fennel. But of course I love flowers too. I love the magnolia flower. I’m obsessed. It’s exquisite.

I would love to go to New Zealand. I like to see flora in a landscape. My approach is more like a naturalist. I’ve heard about giant, 10-foot hydrangea plants growing wild there in these emerald green, enchanted-looking wild woods.

Once I climbed up a palm tree several feet to cut dates and was stabbed in the head by a needle. It drew blood! I stopped along Highway 5 because I saw some amazing tumbleweeds blowing around out there. I can find wild grapes growing in the Sierra foothills.

It’s all about the search. It can take you anywhere.

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Skirt by J U S T I N C A S E Stockings by S T R AT H C O N A

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Dress by M I N A P E R H O N E N F R O M M A C

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* Monoprints by Louesa Roebuck

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H O RT I C U LT U R E Photographer

LAURIE FRANKEL Floral Stylist

LOUESA ROEBUCK Models

Hair Stylist and Make-up Artist

LAUREN SHAFFER LOUESA ROEBUCK

REBECCA BUTZ

Photo Assistant

LISA MOIR AND S H E R I E VA N S

Prop and Wardrobe Stylist

AARON FEE

Artwork by

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WHY WE WEAR

The Sundress

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Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Austin, Texas. Paris.

Richard Linklater’s seminal film, Slackers, called me to Austin, Texas. At eighteen I was an anarcho-feminist and environmental activist, and I was fiercely naïve. I grew up a pariah among the rolled coifs and caked foundation of southern Mississippi and its saccharine belles. Austin was comparatively intellectual and urban. Two states away from Mississippi felt like a continent. The Deep South couldn’t sink me at the University of Texas.

and a fitted torso that flared at the hips and fell a few inches above the knee. I loved it. In another lifetime I would have lounged in the dress under a live oak tree with a beau to whom I was generally indifferent and destined to marry. In reality I had shoplifted it from a mall in Gulfport (sorry, Mom and Dad). Freckled and straw-haired, my look conjured unpolluted springs, rolled hay, bucolic splendor. So I paired the dress with combat boots and tube socks as I aggressively rode my bike through town.

In my second semester I wanted a room of my own, so I moved out of the women’s vegetarian coop on campus into the rambling Earthfirst! House just east of the highway. Eight semi-unemployed guys who were “students” when they needed student loan checks lived there with one girl, an anorexic low-talker with a pet rat – and me. Neither the coop nor the Earthfirst! House had air conditioning. I was from the tropics and unfazed. In hot places, people just wear less clothing.

One Friday each month the Critical Mass protest rolled through rush hour to demand bike lanes and awareness of cyclists on the streets of the Texas capital. I donned a Hattiesburg, Mississippi, police uniform I had worn in a high school play and duck-taped a sign to my back, Fuck Me, since writing Fuck Cops would have gotten me arrested. On another ride I was pulled over for “riding three abreast” – an arrestable offense. “I’ll show you a breast,” I spat, pulling down my white eyelet sundress, while blushing and flustered cops let the protest pass, arguing about the protocol for arresting a topless young woman. Eventually a grave female cop showed up to frisk and stuff me into the paddy wagon with 10 handcuffed cyclists. They left my wrists free. So when “Ben” asked me to do him a favor, I could. I pulled the plastic bag of mushrooms he had just scored out of his front pocket, fed them to him, stuffed the baggie behind the metal grating, and hoped my fingerprints were smudged.

In keeping with Austin’s topless laws leftover from hippie days of yore, the Earthfirst! House was clothing optional. I believed women’s bodies were overly sexualized and that only through seeing female flesh outside of a sexual context could this albatross be lifted. So in (shoplifted) green satin bikini briefs, I stirred jalapeños into cornbread. I baked sweet potatoes and popped popcorn for dinner. I opened all the windows and steamed broccoli, leaning against the sink, my skin heated by the stove’s open flame. Once a month we cooked a “Food Not Bombs” meal from discarded vegetables dumpster-dived from various eating establishments. Homeless people, students, staff and professors would eat soup and day-old baked goods together on The Drag until, invariably, we were arrested for serving food without a permit. The waste could feed us all! we cried.

I didn’t drink or take drugs back then. In combat boots and flapping sundress, I didn’t want to relax. It was through leisure that the extreme capitalist machine – aka “The Man” – maintained easy control. I had just begun to ascertain the instruments of power, and I was pissed. I needed all my faculties to fight.

In Austin I often wore – though never with a bra – a white eyelet sundress, scooped in front and back with thin straps

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As the daughter of a preacher, I understood how to sit quietly while men spoke, and I knew intimately the fury such silence engendered. Activist meetings were dominated by angry young men who loved to hear themselves speak, even when they were repeating themselves like old fogies. After waiting two hours in an anarchist meeting to get a word in edgewise, I quit going to meetings. The revolution was not going to happen in a meeting, and definitely not with these dudes.

I EXHALED AND DROPPED OUT OF SCHOOL. MY SUNDRESS FLEW LIKE A CLOUD ACROSS THE ROOM AS I CLIMBED INTO BED WITH PIERREARNAUD, WHERE I WAS FREE TO BE NAKED.

Around that same time I noticed that my housemates never “opted” to go without clothing. And they never cooked. Property is theft, they’d recite through a grin as they helped themselves to my cornbread, slathered in honey. I packed futon and books into storage to study in France that summer, and paid the deposit on a garage apartment where I’d live alone come fall.

In France no one batted an eye at topless bathers. Combat boots were too heavy for Aix-en-Provence, so they remained in my backpack while I slipped on sandals. At a spring-fed fountain where young and old hung out on summer nights, I fell in love with a geography student whose research explored Afghanistan’s opium economy. In my eyelet sundress I hiked Cezanne’s Mont Saint Victoire with him and traveled to Paris for flânerie, from the Champs Elysees to the Bastille. France clearly was not immune to injustice (powerfully depicted, for example, in the 90’s film, La Haine). However, citizens of all demographics would take to the street in protest as civic duty, not radicalism. Fruit was bought ripe from markets and eaten the same day. Refrigerators were tiny. Women in their sixties were sexy and serious and men crossed their legs and ate yogurt – without being judged. Healthcare was universal. The works of intellectuals and painters were known by cashiers and students alike. Black people and white people embraced in public. Old buildings were lived in, not torn down. Youth was part of the life cycle, not an ideal. Beauty flourished, free of commerce and capitulation.

I exhaled and dropped out of school. My sundress flew like a cloud across the room as I climbed into bed with Pierre-Arnaud, where I was free to be naked.

Apparrament, the world was too complex for my pure strain of Deep Southern rage. So far from home, it didn’t fit.

I had to change.

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C E DR IC C HA R L I E R ARAKS PHILOSOPHY B R O O K LY N F O X GOSSARD CELINE V I V I E N N E W E ST WO OD MOSCHINO TRIUMPH C P C O M PA N Y B E L S TA F F MARC JAC OBS

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UNDER THE HOURS

Protographer

C H R I S C R AY M E R

Coat by C E D R I C C H A R L I E R Underwear by A R A K S

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Skirt by P H I L O S O P H Y Bra by B R O O K LY N F O X

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Basque by I N T I M AT E S Bra by G O S S A R D

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Vintage by C E L I N E

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Pants by V I V I E N N E W E S T W O O D Sweater by M O S C H I N O

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Bodysuit by T R I U M P H

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His shirt and jeans by C P C O M PA N Y Her pants by C E D R I C C H A R L I E R Jacket by B E L S TA F F Shoes by M A R C J A C O B S

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UNDER THE HOURS Photographer

CHRIS CRAYMER Fashion Editor

SARAH COBB Hair Stylist

Models

THOMAS MCKIVER

J E S S I A N N M O N TA G E FRANCISCO FORD

Make-up Artist

C H A R L O T T E D AY

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B A R E Notebook

Courtesy of Miramax

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H T A E D A F O D A E D N A M BAS

by NTHER Ü G N A TI

Have you killed the man who killed you?

I’M NOT DEAD

It’s 1996 – I’m sitting in a movie theatre and witnessing the genre of the classical Western being carried to its grave. Jim Jarmusch’s Dead Man abandoned all the rules and expections of this genre.

dead man defeat their multiplying pursuers. Needless to say, the three gunmen decimate themselves in a manner singular to Jarmusch.

Nobody asks Blake if he killed the white man that killed him.

Blakes answers: “I’m not dead.” But Nobody knows better.

Dead Man is dark, funny and strange, offering a unique view into human failure. When I left the cinema back in 1996, I thought there was no need to ever tell another Western story.

Jarmusch had just killed it.

Jarmusch tells a death-of-a-salesman story in the laconic style that characterized his earlier works – like Stranger Than Paradise or Down By Law. The storytelling is anticlimactic, with his unique sense of humor. “Do you have any tobacco?”

After being wounded by a bullet, Johnny Depp floats through the film like a ghost heading towards his own death. In stunning black and white and supported by Neil Young’s screaming guitar, Dead Man is a parable of the genocide of the Native Americans and America’s subsequent industrialization. It brought destruction, suppression and expulsion – conditions that continue today.

Several times in the film Nobody, mistaking Depp’s character for a reincarnation of the poet, recites lines from William Blake’s poems:

Every night and every morn Some to misery are born, Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight.

In the first scene, William Blake (Johnny Depp) sits in a train on the way to Machine – a small town where Blake is supposed to take up a post as an accountant. Most of the people who are riding with him don’t notice him; they look through him as if he weren’t there. Others toss worried glances his way. Depp plays Blake as a quiet stranger who observes the new world he is thrown into with curiousity and visible discomfort. It seems as though the train is carrying Blake to his end.

Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.

William Blake - Auguries of Innocence

An unfortunate coincidence results in Blake getting shot and wounded. He kills the other man during this gunfire and is from then on followed by a gang of gunmen. While on the run Blake meets a Native American, played by Gary Farmer, with the name Xebeche, “the one who talks a lot but says nothing,” but he prefers the name “Nobody” (a reference to Emily Dickinson: “I’m Nobody! / Who are you? Are you – Nobody – too?” The other is in the name of Machine’s tycoon, Dickinson). Nobody and a dead man. This fantastic duo of underdog anti-heroes run from their persecutors and from civilization into the woods. When Blake uses the blood of a fawn to refresh his warpaint, it seems that he finally becomes one with nature.

Jarmusch is saying, “Look, this is the way” – a romantic withdrawal back into nature. Protected by nature, Nobody and the

Of course Jarmusch’s Blake first has no idea what Nobody is talking about. During the film, though, Depp takes on the poetry of his namesake. And with it the poet’s rebellion against and rejection of the emerging materialism and oppression.

In Dead Man Jarmusch created a piece of poetry himself, reminding us what cinema can do. This film has stayed with me all these years. The image of the young Johnny Depp sitting in a train. The recurring fades into black and the consistent rhythm of the train. When we see Blake on the train – in the first shot of the film – he is already a dead man and we know it. But we stick with him and his journey, just to make sure he doesn’t get hurt.

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THE ARTIST IN THE STUDIO PEPE HEYKOOP Protographer

INGA POWILLEIT

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B A R E Interview

Pepe Heykoop is a Dutch designer. In his Amsterdam studio, he develops low-tech techniques, incorporating handmade and recycled elements into singular, striking pieces.

Excerpts from a conversation with BARE.

PEPE HEYKOOP

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Inspiration Inspiration is liquid. It can take any shape. It can come any moment. Open up your eyes, keep looking and try to understand your surroundings bit by bit.

The start of a project can be anything – it is unlimited. Last year I came up with a paper cover that transforms an empty bottle into a vase.

Beginnings I’ve loved making drawings, ever since I was little. My parents used to frame all of them. I have always felt the urge to make things with my hands. Recently we completely rebuilt the house we live in. That took about two years.

Studio I like to inspire other people by making uncommon works in my Amsterdam studio – experimental one-offs or small series. Most of that work is about recycling in an uncommon way. I love to play around with found objects and see beauty in them. In the end it’s just your point of view that creates your perception of things.

The studio in Mumbai, India, is meant for retail products. I designed these pieces especially to be manufactured by the Pardeshis, a group of poor people living in the streets of Mumbai. We hope to support this community by giving them the means to earn an income with design projects that utilize their crafting skills – with the aim of lifting them out of poverty by 2020. In this project I’m collaborating with Tiny Miracles Foundation (founded by my cousin).

I’m leading the production. This means that I’m responsible for the design, the sourcing of materials, and training the group. Currently 70 women are involved in this project on a daily basis. For shipping reasons, our product has to be flat packed, always! So we consider this during the design process. Like the paper vase cover, it comes in an envelope.

This Mumbai studio creates a big change in the lives of the creators. They become much more confident and self-sufficient. That is amazing to see.

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Letting go There are a few pieces that you will take with you forever. They mean something special to me. The rest of the family members need to leave the nest one day.

Isn’t that how it goes? They need to explore the world.

Admiration I like Joep van Lieshout for his crazy view on society and turning that into absurd works. To think about it is one thing, but to realize it... What he accomplishes is incredible.

Art &Amour We are both in the creative field – she (Annemarijne Bax) is a photographer.

We discuss our works and reasons for making new projects. It can be great to see your idea through another set of eyes.

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THE ARTIST IN THE STUDIO Photographer

INGA POWILLEIT

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A M E R I C A N A P PA R E L E R I C J AV I T S ZIMMERMAN ERES C A LV I N K L E I N ZARA

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THE SWIMMER

Protographer

N I C K H E AV I C A N

Bathing suit by A M E R I C A N A P PA R E L

By E R I C J AV I T S

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‌Then it occurred to him that by taking a dogleg to the southwest he could reach his home by water.

His life was not confining and the delight he took in this observation could not be explained by its suggestion of escape. He seemed to see, with a cartographer’s eye, that string of swimming pools, that quasi-subterranean stream that curved across the county. He had made a discovery, a contribution to modern geography; he would name the stream Lucinda after his wife.

He was not a practical joker nor was he a fool but he was determinedly original and had a vague and modest idea of himself as a legendary figure. The day was beautiful and it seemed to him that a long swim might enlarge and celebrate its beauty. . .

When Lucinda asked where he was going he said he was going to swim home.

F R OM

THE SWIMMER J OH N C H E E V E R

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Reprinted with permission of Random House LLC.

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Hat by E R I C J AV I T S Bathing suit by Z I M M E R M A N N

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Left: Bathing suit by E R E S Hat by E R I C J AV I T S Right: Bikini by A M E R I C A N A P PA R E L Hat by E R I C J AV I T S 143

Bathing suit by C A LV I N K L E I N

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Hat by Z A R A Bathing suit by E R E S

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White bikini by A M E R I C A N A P PA R E L Hat by E R I C J AV I T S

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THE SWIMMER Photographer

NICK HEAVICAN Fashion Editor

JEN PATRYN Hair Stylist and Make-up Artist

Model

BRIT COCHRAN

ALI MICHAEL

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B A R E Notebook

QUADRANGLE

Photo by PA U L G R A P P E L L

by

AMY GRAPPELL

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For as long as I can remember, the way to my father was through his photographs. He was a mystery to me, this man behind the lens, but in the moment of that click, we were one. I had his complete attention – a rare gift. For a split second, we transcended time together.

I grew up in a group marriage in the 70’s. A filmmaker myself, I began doing interviews with my parents in an effort to understand my strange and tumultuous family history. That was when I discovered a trove of my father’s photographs.

Over the course of many weeks, I soaked and peeled the negatives from their wax paper covers (commonly used in the 70’s). The negatives were corroded by time and inclement conditions. I hung them to dry on clotheslines strung across my kitchen, not knowing what I might find.

These images called to me, but there was one in particular which captured the essence of my unconventional family. Though only three members of the group are in the frame, my father’s gaze is strongly felt behind the lens, completing the quadrangle.

Standing next to the kitchen sink under these images hanging like laundry, I knew I had something.

This image inspired me to create an art installation in which his photos and my interviews were displayed side-by-side. The strong response to this museum piece told me that the story of my family struck a larger chord.

So I took the story a step further by merging the photos of the past into the moving images of the present in a documentary, Quadrangle. After a Sundance premiere, the documentary was broadcast on HBO. Its life continues, now as a pilot for a narrative series on HBO. For me, it all began with this photo.

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B A R E Fashion

S A I N T L AU R E N T B Y H E A D I S L I M A N E FENDI F I F I C HAC H N I L ERES YA C I N E A O UA D I S O N IA RY K I E L LA PERLA CARINE GILSON EMILIO PUCCI

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L E W E E KEND

P H O T O G R A P H E R

FANNY LATOUR-LAMBERT

Shirt by S A I N T L A U R E N T B Y H E D I S L I M A N E Sweater by F E N D I High-waisted panties by F I F I C H A C H N I L

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Bras and panties E R E S Skirts by YA C I N E A O U A D I

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Sweater by S O N I A R Y K I E L Nightgown by C A R I N E G I L S O N

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Sweater by S O N I A R Y K I E L Bra by L A P E R L A Skirt by YA C I N E A O U A D I

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Bra by E R E S Skirt by YA C I N E A O U A D I

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Left: Embroidered sweater and boots by S A I N T L A U R E N T B Y H E D I S L I M A N E Right: Dress by E M I L I O P U C C I Bra by E R E S Nightgown underneath by L A P E R L A Boots by S A I N T L A U R E N T B Y H E D I S L I M A N E

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LE WEEKEND Photographer

FANNY LATOUR-LAMBERT Fashion Editor

MATTHIEU PABIOT Models

NICOLE GREGORCZUK A N N A N E VA L A Hair Stylist

C É L I N E E X B R AYAT Location

COMPTOIR GÉNÉRAL

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Let’s pretend we’re bunny rabbits *

At home in Brooklyn with Cornelius

Photographer

M A R IA ROB L E D O

* Song by The Magnetic Fields.

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M A R I A R O B L E D O ’ S P O P U L A R I N S TA G R A M P O R T R A I T S O F P E T B U N N Y, C O R N E L I U S , INSPIRED A MORE FORMAL SITTING, IN AND A R O U N D T H E FA M I LY ’ S B R O O K LY N H O M E .

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THE BUNNY Photographer

MARIA ROBLEDO Bunny Wranglers

Bunny

ISABEL ROWER H O LT O N R O W E R

CORNELIUS

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We are more grateful than we can say.

Thank you.

ALESSANDRO LOVADINA ALY SU BORST BARBARA IWEINS BRETING ENGEL ELIZABETH URSCHEL GREER GOLDENBERG HOLTON ROWER ISABEL ROWER INSA DOAN PATRICK DOAN JENNIFER HAYSLER JUSTINE CLAY LYSE MARTEL MARY HEALY PAVLE JOVANOVIC SARAH LAIRD WALKER BROCKINGTON

177

OP E N

TO

V I E W; U N C ON C E A L E D ; U NA D OR N E D ; P L A I N

Calm now—the world assembles itself, and we do not kneel at its feet in greeting.

Departed with a gesture of thanks and a tentative blessing—Departed with a face open and bare.

BA R BA R A C U L LY U N DE R T H E HO U R S

IN

W W W. B A R E-J O U RN A L .C O M