French artist Xoil has a characteristic tattooing style that looks like he has stamped, stenciled, or drawn directly with a felt-tip pen on his clients’ bodies.
These are gorgeous.
Yeah, these are fucking awesome.
"As an actor, you have total rights to privacy and mystery, whatever your sexuality, whatever you do. I don’t see why that has to be something you discuss openly because you do something in the public eye. I have no understanding of why we turn actors into celebrities."
“As an actor, you have total rights to privacy and mystery, whatever your sexuality, whatever you do.”
As an actor, you have total rights to privacy and mystery, whatever your sexuality, whatever you do.
"Before he had time to think, he was beside her, and said simply, ‘You are beautiful.’
But she hurried on, without replying, and set off down a side path. Others ran up, playing among the trees, all going off in whatever direction they wished, obeying only their own whims. The young man deeply regretted what he called his clumsiness, his crassness, his stupidity. He was wandering aimlessly, sure that he would not see the delightful creature again, when suddenly he saw her coming towards him and unable to avoid them meeting on the narrow path. […]
This time, he bowed and very quietly said: ‘Will you forgive me?’
‘I forgive you,’ she said, gravely. ‘But I must go back to the children, since they are in charge today. Farewell.’
Augustin begged her to stay a moment longer. He spoke to her so awkwardly, but with such confused emotion and agitation in his voice that she slowed down and listened to him.
‘I don’t even know who you are,’ she said at last. She spoke each word in an even tone, with the same emphasis on every one, but saying the last in a softer voice… Then her face became impassive again; she bit her lip a little and her blue eyes stared off into the distance.
‘And I don’t know your name, either,’ Meaulnes replied.
They were now following a path in the open and, some distance away, could see the guests gathering around a house isolated in the open countryside.
‘That’s Frantz’s house,’ the young woman said. ‘I have to leave you…’
She paused, looking at him for a moment with a smile, and said: ‘My name? I’m Mademoiselle Yvonne de Galais…’
Then she was gone.
Frantz’s house was unoccupied at the time, but Meaulnes discovered it had been invaded from cellar to attic by a host of guests. In any event, he did not have the time to take a good look at the place: they quickly had a cold lunch that they had brought with them in the boats, which was rather unseasonal, but was doubtless what the children had chosen: then they set off again. Meaulnes went up to Mademoiselle de Galais as soon as he saw her come out and, replying to her earlier remark, he said: ‘The name I had given you was prettier.’
‘What? What name was that?’ she asked, with the same seriousness as before.
But he was afraid that he had said something idiotic and didn’t answer.
‘My own name is Augustin Meaulnes,’ he went on. ‘And I’m a student.’
‘Ah! You’re studying?’ she said. And they talked for a little longer. They talked slowly, pleasurably, in a friendly way. Then the young woman’s attitude changed. Though now less haughty and less grave, she also seemed more worried. It was as though she were anxious about what Meaulnes might say and was taking fright in advance. She was trembling next to him, like a swallow that has landed for a moment and is already quivering with the urge to take flight again.
‘What’s the use? What’s the use?’ she replied softly whenever he suggested anything.
But when at last he dared to ask her permission to come back one day to the beautiful estate, she said simply, ‘I’ll be expecting you.’
They came in sight of the landing-stage. She paused, suddenly, and said pensively: ‘We’re two children. We’ve been foolish. This time we mustn’t get into the same boat. Farewell, don’t follow me.’
For a while, Meaulnes stood there, saying nothing; then he began to walk after her. At this, the young woman, far ahead of him and about to be swallowed up again by the crowd of guests, stopped and, turning back towards him, gave him for the first time a long stare. Was it a last farewell gesture? Was she forbidding him to accompany her? Or did she perhaps have something else that she wanted to tell him?"
- Alain-Fournier, The Lost Estate (Le Grand Meaulnes), translation by Robin Buss.