A NECKLACE OF WHISTLES, A HORIZON OF SALT

 

    ©tedorè

17 August 2025, coast

Afternoons on the coast have a way of undoing me. 

The whistle, small, delicate, absurd, slips between my lips, releasing the cry of a gull. 

And then, as if summoned, a bird carves across the sky, its wings cutting the fragile blue that is already bruising into rose. 

I do not know if it was answering me, or something I had not yet dared to name. 

The sea leaned closer, heavy with a pink shimmer, a tide rehearsing eternity, always returning, never the same. 

And I thought of you. 

ANOHNI AND THE JOHNSONS: TINY DESCK CONCERT

 

ANOHNI and the Johnsons arrive at the Tiny Desk with a set that feels both intimate and unguarded, carrying the weight and clarity of three decades of music-making. 

In Why Am I Alive Now?, ANOHNI’s voice moves over Gael Rakotondrabe’s cascading piano, Sam Dixon’s grounded bass, Doug Wieselman’s plaintive clarinet, and the percussive pulse that keeps the lament breathing. 

RAMO

 

    ©Carolina de Barros

Like a forest caught in mid-breath, the Ramo Earrings by Carolina de Barros unfurl with quiet poetry, each vine-like curve a whisper of woodland midnight and soft moonlight. Delicate pearls cling along their sinuous paths, like dew-kissed blossoms suspended in repose. These aren’t just adornments; they are miniature moment-capturing silhouettes, sculpted in recycled silver, and there are also in an 18ct gold-plated version, made entirely by hand in her London atelier. 

LES MAINS DE MARGARET NEIMAN

 

           ©Man Ray Trust/Adagp, Paris

Man Ray, circa 1945 

A gelatin silver print on paper, this photograph captures the hands of Margaret Neiman, a model and muse within Man Ray’s artistic circle. The image measures 12 × 9 cm and belongs to the Cabinet de la photographie of the Musée national d’art moderne, Centre Pompidou. Created around 1945, the print is part of Man Ray’s post-Surrealist period, reflecting his enduring interest in fragmentation, the body, and symbolism. 

ECHOES ON THE SECOND FLOOR

 

2 July 2025, Paris 

Lately, my dates always begin or end with rain. This one arrived dressed in overcast light, the kind that brushes everything with a hush. It was the second of July in Paris, and the sky had just finished raining in the early hours, leaving behind a softness that clung to windows, steps, and thoughts. I wandered into the Centre Pompidou just as the wind lifted slightly, as if something unseen had stirred. 

The old BPI library, once dense with books and whispers, now stood emptied, not abandoned, but expectant. I hadn't planned to feel sentimental about industrial carpet, but there it was: faded marks where shelves once stood, an unintentional grid of ghosts. It suited the occasion. 

Wolfgang Tillmans had taken over the entire second level for his retrospective, "Nothing Could Have Prepared Us, Everything Could Have Prepared Us". It didn’t feel like an exhibition. It felt like someone had broken open their own archive and invited me to walk barefoot through the aftershock. 

There were no clear paths, no forced chronology. Photographs were taped to walls, laid flat on tables, and paused mid-thought on giant prints. Some shimmered with a club's pulse, others with domestic quiet. One moment, I was looking at skin, impossibly close, damp with motion. Next, I was face to face with a storm cloud that looked like it might swallow the entire city of Lagos. These images didn’t explain themselves. They simply were, like light or hunger.