New York Magazine outtake
"The hour should be the evening and the season winter, for in winter the champagne brightness of the air and the sociability of the streets are grateful. We are not then taunted as in the summer by the longing for shade and solitude and sweet airs from the hayfields. The evening hour, too, gives us the irresponsibility which darkness and lamplight bestow. We are no longer quite ourselves. As we step out of the house on a fine evening between four and six, we shed the self our friends know us by and become part of that vast republican army of anonymous trampers, whose society is so agreeable after the solitude of one’s own room. For there we sit surrounded by objects which perpetually express the oddity of our own temperaments and enforce the memories of our own experience. That bowl on the mantelpiece, for instance, was bought at Mantua on a windy day. We were leaving the shop when the sinister old woman plucked at our skirts and said she would find herself starving one of these days, but, “Take it!” she cried, and thrust the blue and white china bowl into our hands as if she never wanted to be reminded of her quixotic generosity. So, guiltily, but suspecting nevertheless how badly we had been fleeced, we carried it back to the little hotel where, in the middle of the night, the innkeeper quarrelled so violently with his wife that we all leant out into the courtyard to look, and saw the vines laced about among the pillars and the stars white in the sky. The moment was stabilized, stamped like a coin indelibly among a million that slipped by imperceptibly. There, too, was the melancholy Englishman, who rose among the coffee cups and the little iron tables and revealed the secrets of his soul — as travellers do. All this — Italy, the windy morning, the vines laced about the pillars, the Englishman and the secrets of his soul — rise up in a cloud from the china bowl on the mantelpiece. And there, as our eyes fall to the floor, is that brown stain on the carpet. Mr. Lloyd George made that. “The man’s a devil!” said Mr. Cummings, putting the kettle down with which he was about to fill the teapot so that it burnt a brown ring on the carpet."
Virginia Woolf, from “Street Haunting" (in The Death of the Moth)
In his series, Behind a Little House, Manuel Cosentino transforms a tiny little house on a simple hill into a series of dramatically majestic landscapes. For two years, the Italian photographer documented the same location, capturing the house set against the changing light and weather throughout the years.
"A young woman in wooden shoes and a brilliant, flowered kimono played an amplified, electric koto. When I introduced myself, she saw that I had bought a recording of her music. I knew she was only trying to invite me to her next performance, but I blushed when she threw her arms around me, kissed me hard on the cheek, and said, come to my life!"
This ‘Haunted House’ is not like any you will have seen before and comes in the form of a spooky gallery of paintings that at first seem ordinary but soon turn out to have some hidden surprises in store. The concept behind Torafu Architects’ ‘Haunted Play House’ is to challenge perspectives and norms where rules are broken as children are actually encouraged to run, shout and touch – activities usually forbidden in a gallery or a museum.