A tiny radiance in a dark place

I think we all know by now that I'm fond of a bit of poetry. I don't really know much about it - the last time I attempted any kind of proper literary analysis was over a decade ago - but I admire and enjoy it, and really, isn't that the point?

So, obviously, I am very into these free downloadable posters from the Scottish Poetry Library. Not only do I love the graphic type and candy colours, I love the very idea of printing poetry off and sticking it on your wall, like it was a Romeo+Juliet-era Leonardo DiCaprio poster.

I'm tempted to download "A tiny radiance" for the space above my desk, but I feel like my boss might take it the wrong way. I also can't get over the description of poetry as "the breast milk of language." Indeed.

If you prefer pictures to words, Pugly Pixel shared a link a while back to a new project from the Rijks Museum, which is offering free high-res downloads of artworks from its vast collection.

In order to help you narrow down which pieces you might like to download, the museum offers a 'Master Matching' service, which is kind of like a Cosmo "Which Sex and the City character are you?" quiz except infinitely classier. Instead of suffering the indignity of categorising yourself as a particular type cocktail or shoe  ("Practical flats? You're so Miranda!"), you're invited to select your favourite Dutch city (who doesn't love Maastricht?) and ponder whether you were a hermit or a queen in a past life (hermit, obvs). This, ladies and gents, is my idea of a good time.

Update: I took my own advice.


Poetry posters via the Scottish Poetry Library. Porcelain plate circa 1778-1782 via Rijks Studio.

SEE ALSO:

→ Naked as a nightclub in daylight

→ The Poet

→ Culture and stuff

Muldoodling

Aren't these illustrations of Edinburgh so sweet? I love them. They're by local illustrator and all-round superhero Eilidh Muldoon, aka Muldoodles. Eilidh is from North Berwick, same as me. I've known her family for a long time, and I can confidently say that the last year for them has been one of the most spectacularly crap-tastic years ever.

But instead of crumbling in the face of the gigantic pile of bollocks the world has thrown at her, Eilidh has only gone and got a bloody distinction in her MFA from Edinburgh College of Art! BOOM! In your FACE, world!

Her lovely work can be seen in person at the ECA Degree Show until Sunday, or you can have a good nosy around on her website and blog. Eilidh is available for all sorts of commissions, including logos and branding if anyone's in the market for a new blog header or shop design. She also draws custom house portraits - best housewarming present ever? I think so.

I don't normally do this kind of post, but I'm just thrilled to bits for Eilidh. PLUS the girl is clearly crazy talented, and it's Friday, and who doesn't like a bit of eye candy on a Friday? Nobody, that's who.

Happy weekend, folks.


All illustrations by Muldoodles.

SEE ALSO:

→ Doodled

→ What Kristen Saw

The truth about pixie crops

Fin and I recently watched House of Cards in an attempt to fill the West-Wing-shaped void in our lives. I spent a great deal of time admiring Claire Underwood's hair.

We also recently watched The Queen: A Passion for Horses. I don't know why, I don't even like horses, but we'd finished House of Cards and there was nothing else on. I spent a great deal of time admiring Clare Balding's professionalism, warmth and ability to make even the dullest subject seem fascinating (an HOUR-LONG documentary about the special royal-equine bond? Really, BBC?). I spent precisely no time admiring Clare's hair. Sorry, Clare.

What nobody warns you about pixie crops is that you can leave your house thinking you're at the Underwood end of the Claire Hair Spectrum, but one brisk walk to work later and you find yourself dangerously close to Balding territory. It's a fine, fine line my friends.

And that is the last time I will fret about my hair.

This month, anyway.


Images: Underwood / Balding

SEE ALSO:

→ The trouble with Pinterest

→ Vote for your favourite Geldof!

→ Democracy in action

It's a hard job, but someone's got to do it.

Tomorrow I embark on an aggressive programme of relaxation and beautification the likes of which the world has never known. From massages to manicures, facials to fake tans, even a brief but thrilling foray into acupuncture: my spa attendance in the next three weeks will represent a 10,000% increase on the whole of the previous three years. It's going to be... intense.

Stylist magazine (Emerald Street's big sister) is compiling a list of the top beauty treatments in the UK and I selflessly volunteered to help with the reviews. Hey, what's a fledgeling freelance career for if you can't indulge in a few perks now and then? It's free, I'm Scottish, this was always going to happen.

Between now and the beginning of June, I'll be leaving no hot stone unturned in the name of journalistic research. Sunshine will burst from my every pore. Soothed muscles will cover my bones like jelly over ice cream. My skin will be so radiant, people will have to wear sunglasses just to look at me.

How lovely, you might think. What could be more relaxing? I'll tell you what could be more relaxing. Not trying to cram seventeen spa therapies into a full-time working week could be more relaxing. Not having to drive to Perthshire and back the day after a hen do could be more relaxing. Not building a spreadsheet of opening hours versus length of treatment versus distance from office versus fickle salon owners' availability could be more relaxing.

What's that noise? Is it the sound of the world's tiniest violin? I know, I know, I shouldn't complain. In truth I can't wait, fickle salon owners aside. The first time I ever had a massage I felt like I was walking on air; every massage since has been an attempt to recapture that euphoric high. So far, as is often the case with these things, it's never been as good as the first time, but maybe my forthcoming massage marathon will be the answer. Or maybe it will release a noxious cloud of toxins into my body and make me horribly ill. I guess we'll find out.

Are any of you lot closet beauty addicts? I have to say, you don't seem the type (said with love, since I myself haven't darkened a beautician's door for months and I like to think I'm not a hairy troll). How about acupuncture? I generally prefer to put my faith in modern medicine, but acupuncture intrigues me. There must be a reason it's survived so long. Plus, porcupine chic is so in right now, darling.


Images by Nirrimi Firebrace

SEE ALSO:

→ The art of writing

The Blue Dress

I don't recall pain, or joy, only the blue dress
I wore, and the door open to the sea,
and the liquid sun across the floor beside the bed.

Excerpt from The Blue Dress, by Freya Manfred

No reason. I just liked it.

Wishing you a lovely weekend, filled with liquid sun.


Bambi Northwood-Blyth by Tim Barber for Muse Summer 2011, via Fashion Gone Rogue

SEE ALSO:

→ Being Boring

→ Naked as a nightclub in daylight

→ The Poet