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Among the problems Nabokov’s Lolita poses for the book designer, probably the thorniest is the popular misconception of the title character. She’s chronically miscast as a teenage sexpot—just witness the dozens of soft-core covers over the years. “We are talking about a novel which has child rape at its core,” says John Bertram, an architect and blogger who, three years ago, sponsored a Lolita cover competition asking designers to do better.
Now the contest is being turned into a book, due out in June and coedited by Yuri Leving, with essays on historical cover treatments along with new versions by 60 well-known designers, two-thirds of them women: Barbara deWilde, Jessica Helfand, Peter Mendelsund, and Jennifer Daniel, to name a few. They don’t shy away from frank sexuality, but they add layers of darkness and complication. And like Jamie Keenan’s cover—a claustrophobic room that morphs into a girl in her underwear—they provoke without asking readers to abdicate their responsibility.
(via Recovering Lolita — Imprint-The Online Community for Graphic Designers)
(via imaginazian)
The Middle Ages was a very exciting time in Europe.
I love what I do. Beyond words.
Being able to sit in a seminar of 8 people and talk about the absurdities of marginalia or illuminations or architectural sculpture and leave to slave in the library to explore the “why?” just to discover that it may not be as absurd as you originally thought.
(via deftly)
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“Having found that the surest realms of freedom are just as involved in the market commodities and that feelings are commodities too, postmodern artists have rejected their solipsistic and inward-turning fancy but regained their mass medieval audiences, making vast Chartres-like installations, Disneyworlds of desire, forcing us to drink and eat and love in certain ways just as the art of the cathedrals did.” — Michael Camille
Chicago tribune building
Oh, this city.
(Source: urbanmoonproject, via femme-solitaire)
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Looks to try
Our friend is turning 30. And it’s a wig party.
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Art intern life
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Now I’m immortalized by street art. At least until it rains. With this, I own an electric box on the corner of ponce, like a hooker. Thank you, James.