Psychogeographers idolise the flâneur, a figure conceived in 19th-century France by Charles Baudelaire and popularised by Walter Benjamin in the 20th century.
The world's oldest existing library, is in University of Al Qarawiyyin in Fez, Morocco—it was established in 859 AD...by Fatima al-Fihri.
The church singing, part of Maundy Thursday services we just attended, still rings in my ears, despite the clanking of cutlery and the thrum of diners' conversations.
They not only carried the legacy of colonial dining in Calcutta, but appropriated the culture of colonial dining in a manner such that in today’s restaurant spaces they are still apparent.
In the 1920s, Doyle became a regular visitor to the Cedars Spiritualist Church in Ipswich, Suffolk, where he tried to organize séances.
And now you find George Clooney making a guest appearance in it as Lord Hollywood, the new seventh Earl of Grantham. Even the Dowager Countess faints when he kisses her.
Rudyard Kipling sent the details of the case to Arthur Conan Doyle...the case was passed on instead to Agatha Christie.
“On the inclined plane of immorality, France is descending with an ever-accelerated speed, till it seems to have almost reached the lowest point of depravity.” Such is the witness of a faithful Frenchman. On such principles we cease to wonder that Paris is the centre of intrigues, the patroness of vice, the asylum of all infamy.
A breeze in a nearby museum, the Gallery of Contemporary Art, that had as a centerpiece a Basquiat painting of dirty yellows and reds, with a black anthropocentric figure made of thick lines, an abstraction, a negation of the plump oil-rich bodies of the classic Italian paintings of the main gallery. The only black figure in the building seemed to leap like a jazz fugue note in an orchestra.
In that first photo, you have a bouffant updo and bangs “The Sadhna cut was all the rage” Squarish face, with just a hint of the heaviness that will come later. Large eyes and a direct gaze. Not a hint of a smile. Even for this, the biye-er chhobi.
“We are all merchants,” said Selfridge, “and all races of men have been merchants in some form or the other.” Merchant was he who was a writer, doctor, statesman, lawyer or an artist, said Selfridge. While bourgeois mercantilism found an illustrious redefinition in the store Selfridges, what also became furthermore legitimate was—to put it rather bluntly—the vulgar and consummative gaze of the travelling buyer, or the soon-to-evolve window-shopper.