Axel Hoedt:Once A Year 2013Axel Hoedt’s Once a Year offers a series of photographs of traditional German festival costumes, a sort of project that has become more familiar with the recent work of Charles Freger, Estelle Hanania and Phyllis Galembo. Hoedt’s work falls more inline with Hanania’s approach, yet his take is his own. With a background as a fashion and portrait photographer, Hoedt’s photographs revel in the strangeness of their subject matter. A good fashion photographer isn’t simply looking for beauty, but the moment where clothing transfigures the person wearing it — a transformation perhaps never more powerful than with costume. Photographed against white backdrops or in the streets in both black and white and color, Hoedt’s atmospheric images invite you to look, yet not in the same way documentary images do. In these images it is possible to see something beyond the garment. Momentarily still, Hoedt’s photographs allow us flashes of a centuries old world hidden in the experience of otherness of this once a year tradition.
Shrek came out 13 years ago
I didn’t know shrek was gay
I love when you go in for a kiss, and your lips gently graze each others. Then you pull away, and you make a little game of it. You smile. Not because you want to, but because you can’t hold it back. Trying to get that one kiss is your only goal at that moment in time, and once the other person gives in, that kiss is so lustful and meaningful, nothing else even matters.
- (via bl-ossomed)
She is a poet. She’s skinned her knees while trying to etch ink into her bones. She’s shaped her veins into words until she can write them on paper. Her ribcage is made of fragile glass, and if you hit her hard enough, she’ll break into two. She tangled her spine with talent, she carved words on her throat like it’s the only way she could breathe. I honestly don’t know what I’d do if she hadn’t lived.
Her body is a rock formation. She guides the stars back home because she knows how it feels like being lost. She draws the world’s orbits on her palms, and it bleeds fire on the lines of her hand until it reaches the shape of her chest cavity. She doesn’t know it, but she means so much to me.
It’s like every time she brings a trigger to her chest, I could feel the impact of the bullet from halfway across the world. I could taste the smoke of gun powder on the roof of my mouth, and no matter how hard I rub it with my tongue, the putrid taste never comes off. She’s filled with so much sadness that I want to squeeze it out of her until she’s come undone. I want to wrap her in ocean waves and the moon’s crater, but she deserves so much more than that.
She is a poet. She’s tattooed agony on her lips and planted kisses on my forehead. Her hand is wilting, and her voice is rough and cracked pavement, but she’s so beautiful that it’s like she came from Heaven."