The marianne newman gallery is tucked demurely between office buildings on Albany Street, St Leonards.  It’s an intimate space, a haven from the crazy corporate hustle and bustle of the day. 

It’s a space for a bit of quite solitude or sharing a coffee and cake with other ‘interested parties’ surround by beautiful things.  

The gallery’s Christmas Exhibition of the landscape is on from 27 November to  19 December, featuring artists who work with the Australian landscape its mystery, its flora and fauna.

If you’re in need of some visual stimulation or a place to just stop and ‘smell the roses’ then pop in…  you never know what you might find.

marianne newman gallery

Leave as is or alter inside text for a personal touch. Great for a wedding anniversary.

Love In Bloom Forever Yours Romance Card by mariannegilliand
Browse Forever Cards

http://twurl.nl/7mkqtn

Le parachutage à Toulon de Razzie Hamadi échoue et Michel Vauzelle s’affiche plus que jamais comme un seigneur qui contrôle son fief. Du coup, ça fait réfléchir aussi les communistes qui trainent des pieds pour appliquer la ligne du Front de gauche.
Les portables s’affolent dans le cabinet de Michel Vauzelle et dans les diverses fédérations du PS de PACA. C’est désormais officiel, l’ancienne icône du MJS national ambitionne un retour aux sources dans le Var. Mais voilà, tout le monde ne l’entend pas comme ça, et sa candidature apparaît rapidement comme un boulet pour Vauzelle et ses camarades. Jeudi soir, l’affaire semble entendue, Razzye Hammadi ne fait plus partie de la liste varoise. Un premier coup de semonce de la part des militants locaux est alors envoyé vers Solferino, le siège du PS. En substance, le message est clair et se résume ainsi : « Nous pouvons garder la région, ne nous plombez pas ! ».
Cliquez ici pour lire la suite de l’article de JC Bouildé / Marianne 23.11.2009

It was a rare night with the television to myself, and an episode of “Frasier” came on.  This opening exchange made me laugh out loud:

Act 1

Scene 1 – Cafe Nervosa

Fade in. Niles is sitting at a table, Frasier is ordering at the

counter.

Frasier: Cranberry muffin, please. And, uh… a vanilla latte.

Niles: Oh, dear, comfort food. What happened?

Frasier sits.

Frasier: Niles? Do you think I’m elitist?

Niles: Of course I do. You needn’t worry about that.

Frasier: No, not in the good way. At work today, I discovered an

injurious graffito about me. Scrawled on the men’s room wall.

Niles: No.

Frasier pulls a piece of toilet paper from his pocket to read from.

Frasier: Yes. Quote:

There once was a man, Frasier Crane,

Who says he can feel your pain.

But he acts like a snob,

To the guys at his job,

And I think he’s totally lame.

Niles: That’s terrible! There’s a tense shift, an approximate

rhyme, the scansion leaves a lot to be desired…

Frasier: Niles, you’re missing the point! I have always striven to

be approachable, the embodiment of the words “If you can talk

with crowds and keep your virtue…”

Niles: “Or walk with kings, nor lose the common touch.”

Frasier: Exactly!

The waiter brings Frasier’s coffee and muffin.

Frasier: Thank you. If the maligner truly knew who I was,

he’d have found that a more apt characterization than “snob.”

Niles: Assuming he’s familiar with Kipling.

They snicker.

Frasier: What are the odds?

* * *

The thing is, Niles is totally right about the scansion.  And can I help it if I like Kipling??

I named this recipe because every time I make it I think of Diana saying wistfully, “I wish I were rich, and could spend the summer at a hotel, eating ice cream and chicken salad.”  Elinor thought I was referring to my own gluttony.  What can I say?  It’s that good. For a few years we’ve been experimenting and borrowing ideas, and there are, of course, endless variations.  But best of all, it’s easy.  I put this together in about five minutes with the stuff in stock in my pantry and my refrigerator. (No new groceries, remember?)

• One can of white meat chicken, drained
• One tart apple, peeled and chopped (I used a Pink Lady apple and it was marvelous)
• A handful of dried cranberries
• A handful of cashews
• Three or four tablespoons of mayonnaise
• Salt and pepper

That’s how I threw it together last night, and ate it as an open-faced sandwich on a slice of multi-grain bread.  But you can use grapes instead of cranberries, add some dill if you have it, etc.  In my opinion, the essential ingredient is the apple (and, well, the chicken. Obviously.).

Anyway.  Just thought I’d share.  (The recipe, I mean.  I, um, ate all the chicken salad.)

I’ve got lots of ideas knocking around my skull, but it sometimes takes external stimuli in order to get them out of my head and in comprehensible form – like this catty blog post by real-life libertarian girl Ilana Mercer concerning Christian martyr-cum-amateur porn star Carrie Prejean:

“Blond Squad” is a synonym here for the conservatives’ chick of choice. She can be brunette, although that is not preferable. She has to be dumb.

Prejean’s looks comport with what I’ve termed the porn aesthetic. She is most certainly not beautiful.

Those who’ve been conditioned to consider beautiful women who look well-used, cheap, unrefined, and whorish even in their youth will object. But you only have to think of Audry Hepburn, or the bare-faced Julie-Christie to remember what natural, striking beauty is.

Following Mercer’s link leads us to a post where she defines the “porn aesthetic“:

…they represent what I call the porn aesthetic the essence of which is not true sensuality or real physical beauty, but something that corresponds to the lowest form of sex. They are pornographic phenoms theirs are faces that men want to see on hookers; on women they have plain crude sex with. They look well-used, cheap, unrefined, and whorish even in their youth.

That post serves as a teaser for this column she wrote for WorldNetDaily, “Sluts Galore: Scenes from 2006”:

Ideas about feminine beauty are bust. The sublime 1350 B.C. bust of Queen Nefertiti showcases her fine cheekbones and graceful neck. Her Western contemporary look-a-like, down to the perfectly shaped dainty face, was Audrey Hepburn. Catherine Deneuve embodied the French ideal of female beauty, immortalized in the bust of Marianne.

But forget these regal beauties; they, apparently, have nothing on the double-chinned, large, flat expanses that make up Britney Spears’ crude mug. Nefertiti, Hepburn, Deneuve—your patrician pulchritude no longer excites the “porn generation”; the sly, weasel-like looks of a Paris Hilton do.

The culture’s aesthetic preferences are now shaped by the basest of instincts. I call it the porn aesthetic, another example of which is Hue Hefner’s harem of hos. The three kept creatures are currently starring in a reality show called “The Girls Next Door.”

According to Wikipedia, “The prototype of the girl next door is often invoked in American contexts to indicate wholesome, unassuming, or ‘average’ femininity.” Like Ali MacGraw in “Love Story,” perhaps? Hef’s hos have bleached, cotton-candy hair, augmented by extensions, silicone breasts, and demented, syphilitic grins. But according to an entirely new sensibility, they are the girls next door.

So, according to Miss Mercer, Carrie Prejean isn’t beautiful because she looks like a woman that men instinctively want to bang, and Audrey Hepburn IS beautiful because she looked like a woman that men instinctively DIDN’T want to bang. That’s a statement so retarded only a libertarian woman could argue it in earnest.

Both Roissy and Obsidian have argued in the past that women, not men, determine which males are alphas in the context of mating and sex. The flip side of this, by way of Spengler’s Universal Law of Gender Parity, is that men, not women, determine which females are beautiful. The primary purpose of female beauty is to help us men determine who is most worthy of receiving our sperm-missiles, and the yardstick we use to measure it is the penis. The harder the dick, the hotter the girl – it is that simple. To demonstrate how Mercer is incapable of grasping this concept (like most women), here’s her picture of the girl she claims “is most certainly not beautiful”:

Carrie is a bit more masculine then I’d like, but I’d still hit that and come back for seconds, thirds, and fourths – and so would most normal, non-outlier (read: not David Alexander) dudes. She’s an 8.

Here’s Audrey Hepburn, a woman Miss Mercer singles out as an example of “natural, striking beauty”:

Audrey’s no slouch face-wise, but she had a body like a prepubescent boy. 7.

And here’s Mercer’s other example, Julie Christie:

I’d hit it…with six beers in my system and to break a dry spell. 5, possibly a 6.

Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking, “Ferdinand, you reductionist, cock-centered, evo-psych-loving pig-dog, you’re wrong! In past epochs, women’s beauty was determined by higher concepts then what men got off to!” Take your romanticist golden age crap and stick it where the wind breaks. The female beauty ideal has always been determined by what men wanted to nail, as Lynne Lawner wrote in Lives of the Courtesans:

Falling in love with statues and paintings, even making love to them is an ancient fantasy, one of which the Renaissance was keenly aware. Giorgio Vasari, writing in the introductory section of the Lives about art in antiquity, tells how men violated the laws, going into the temples at night and making love with the statues of Venus. In the morning, priests would enter the sanctuaries to find stains on the marble figures.

Yes, that’s right. Those beautiful Greek marble statues that are supposedly symbolic of a higher ideal of beauty? Guys were so turned on by them that they dry-humped them and shot their sticky loads in their crevices. I hope that visual is permanently burned into your brain. And all of those paintings of beautiful women from the Renaissance? They were the jerk-off fantasies of the men who created them. Yes, we of the male species really do think with our little heads that much.

Now, if Miss Mercer wanted to argue that women are becoming less feminine, I’d agree. If she wanted to argue that women are becoming more crass and vulgar, I’d wholeheartedly agree. But the cock doesn’t care about a woman’s class or behavior; it just wants a nice, warm, attractive place to snuggle for the night. Mercer’s notion of “true” female beauty springing from something other then what men want to fuck is pure bullshit. Her vision blinded by female solipsism and her mind dulled by historical ignorance, she can’t help but get it wrong.

And, ladies, if you think it’s unfair that we get to determine what we find attractive in you, keep in mind that it’s also unfair that you get to determine what you find attractive in us. We can’t help our dicks any more then you can help your pussies. This is the Age of Flesh, where the desires of the loins rule all. I don’t make the rules, I just point them out.

Voici un article de 10 pages (mais en fait c’est court!) sur les symboles de l’identité nationale… trèèèèèèès interessant! http://news.fr.msn.com/m6-actualite/france/photo.aspx?cp-documentid=150858626&page=2

Here is a 10 pages article (which is actually pretty short!) about National Identity symbols…verrrrrrrrrrrrrrry interesting!

http://news.fr.msn.com/m6-actualite/france/photo.aspx?cp-documentid=150858626&page=2

drapeau de la France, et Marianne

Thank you very much, Jean Pierre, for sending me this beautiful cover from Saint Pierre and Miquelon! It was posted in Saint-Pierre on October 6, 2009.

The three left stamps are definitives of 1, 5, and 10 cent, which were issued on October 29, 2008.

The next two stamps are entitled “The Net Mender” and were issued on May 29, 2002. The right stamp commemorates the Arctic Hare; it was issued on September 11, 2002.

Pohja

* 200 g suklaakeksejä
* 50 g voisulaa

Täyte

* 2 dl vispikermaa
* 120 g Fazer Marianne Crush- rouhetta
* 200 g rahkaa
* 2dl hyytelösokeria
* 1,5 dl kiehuvaa vettä

Pintahyytelö

* 300 g marjoja
* 1 dl sokeria
* 2 dl hyytelösokeria
* 1 dl punaista mehua

Murenna keksit ja sekoita murut voisulan kanssa ja painele muruseos leivinpaperilla vuoratun irtopohjavuoan pohjalle.

Vatkaa kerma vaahdoksi ja sekoita vaahdon joukkoon Marianne Crush- rouhe ja rahka. Kiehauta vesi kattilassa ja lisää hyytelösokeri. Sekoita hyytelösokeriliemi kevyesti käännellen Marianne-vaahtoon ja kaada seos keksipohjan päälle.
Anna kakun hyytyä jääkaapissa 2-3 tuntia, tai kunnes rahkaseos on hyytynyt.

Soseuta marjat tehosekoittimessa sokerin kanssa. Sekoita hyytelösokeri kiehuvaan mehuun. Sekoita hyytelösokeriliemi survottujen marjojen joukkoon ja nostele liivateseos hyytyneen Marianne-kerroksen päälle. Hyydytä kakku jääkaapissa pari tuntia tai yön yli.

Vinkki!Jos haluat pakastaa kakun, niin pakasta kakku ilman pintahyytelöä. Anna kakun sulaa hitaasti jääkaapissa ja valmista pintahyytelö. Valuta hyytelökerros vuokaan kakun päälle. Pinta hyytyy nopeasti kylmän pohjan ansiosta.

The colors aren’t true, it’s blurry, and the cropping is bad…but this shoddy photograph will have to do for now.  And I’m not fancy enough for a scanner.

It was a wonderful trip.  I think the memories will sustain me through the winter. (“Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories…” Name that movie.)

Sweet as can be gingerbread man cookie stickers feature a classic gingerbread man on a green background. Regular or Large, customizable. Great to seal cards or decorate packages.

Gingerbread Man Cookie Holiday Stickers
by mariannegilliand

http://buzzup.com/hiq2

Sweet as can be gingerbread man cookie stickers feature a classic gingerbread man on a red background. Regular or Large, customizable. Great to seal cards or decorate packages.

Gingerbread Man Cookie Holiday Stickers
by mariannegilliand

http://buzzup.com/hiq1

It is one of the first really cold nights of the declining year.  I confess to feeling a bit low, but it’s a feeling I can indulge in with a delicious sense of solitude tonight, since my roommates have gone out and I have the apartment to myself.  There are books a-plenty which I have stacked up to read, and heaven knows I need to pull out my paintbox and catch up from my recent journey.  For a moment, though, I am just going to sit here, wrapped in my plush blanket, and scribble out a few of the thoughts that have been tumbling around in my mind.

The week has been an eventful one for me; my parents came to town briefly and we had a pleasant day, in which we managed to converge with my great aunt and her husband, who are on an extended trip to various historic places.  I haven’t seen these aged relatives for many years, and this was the first time that I have met my great aunt with the consciousness that she is the little sister of my angel grandmother, and as close a replica of that dear woman as I will ever see.  Studying her as she walked down the street with my mother, I imagined a woman a little taller, a little older, but with a similarly easy smile and delighted laugh.  And I imagined my own mother, feeling whole and safe and loved, and I felt a little of her loss.

All the day long, as I introduced my parents to the familiar faces about town, I was surprised by the warmth and even unexpected generosity shown to my parents by everyone who knows me.  Thinking it over, I wondered if all my stumbling efforts to be kind, patient, useful, grateful, and good have actually borne fruit.   Most of the time I entertain the nervous conviction that I am rather a nuisance to the world in general, and even though I know in my head that surely there are a few people who must find me at least tolerable, it is difficult to get that feeling into my heart. But for just a few hours on Tuesday, I felt…loved.  The feeling was novel and inexpressibly sweet.  And though it passed away by nightfall, when all my doubts crowded in on me again, I had vowed in the golden afternoon to remember the feeling and treasure it up, and so I have.

The following night found me on the road, dashing 200 miles or so across the state to surprise my mother for her birthday.  We have had our rough patches, my mom and I, but I love her and want her to know it.  I met my mom’s older sister in town, and we parked down the street from my parents’ house, then tiptoed to the front door, where I placed a phone call.  Here I’ll relate the scene that ensued:

“Hi mom! It’s me…”

“Hey, can I call you right back? I’m on the other line.”

“Uh, sure. I just wanted to know if the package I sent came today.”

“I don’t think it did…”

“Could you double-check just in case?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, call me back!”

I had complete confidence that within thirty seconds the door would swing open, we’d yell, “Surprise!” and the thing would have been carried off brilliantly.  Well. My aunt and I waited on the porch with chattering teeth, rubbing our arms for warmth, for a full five minutes.  My aunt concluded that I had been blown off, as it were, and that I should call again. So I did.

“Mo-om!”

“What? I’m still on the other line!”

“You didn’t check the porch, did you? I knew you wouldn’t!”

“I’m on the phone!”

“Check it while you’re on the phone!”

“Okay, okay, okay….What am I looking for? What does it look like?”

“Er…kind of like…you.”

At which point my mom looked up and saw two half-frozen well-wishers grinning at her.  She shrieked and almost had a heart attack, and we all had a good, long laugh while my dog clambered all over me in a frenzy of furry welcome.  Once my mother recovered from her shock, she was glad to see us, and we had a good time together that night and the next day.  A fancy-pants family dinner was the plan for our afternoon birthday party, and my aunt and I rather outdid ourselves with the cooking–dinner was delicious. In my case, it was a miracle or a fluke, whichever you prefer to call it.  My dad made his world-famous carrot cake as he does every year, there were birthday candles and presents, a lot of love…and a LOT of dirty dishes.

Today I was back to the work routine, and it felt good to be out of doors.  Though the air was brisk, it was a beautiful, blue-and-gold autumn day.  I kicked up dried leaves and watched them skittering and tumbling down the street, I soaked up the warmth of sunbeams that shot across the sky at the horizontal angle of evening in the mid-afternoon, and I watched the evening star hanging serenely in a sky that grew so gradually dark that I couldn’t say when it went from gold to violet, or from violet to black.

So now my errands are done (including a stop at the gallery where a dear acquaintance is opening a show of his plen-aire pieces from Provence and then a dash to the store to get myself a thick, warm blanket), and I could make myself do some much-needed tidying up…but I think I prefer this blanket and a book.  I tell myself these are the luxuries of being single, and it’s true.  I don’t have to put supper on for anybody, and if I want to read novels and munch on leftover Halloween candy in bed, there’s nobody to argue against it.

But I’d give up every luxury in the world to be loved.

Today is John Keats’ birthday, and it has been a splendid, achingly beautiful autumn day.  So I can’t help myself:

TO AUTUMN

1.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

2.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

3.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

It’s worth noting that To Autumn has the reputation of being the most anthologized poem in the English language.  It was written September 19, 1819, and published the following year.  And I love it. And I love, love, love John Keats.

“Pirate Radio/The Boat That Rocked”
a review by Darby O’Gill

Hands down, the feel good movie of the year! Before Howard Stern, and even before Wolfman Jack, a band of rogue deejays rocked the airwaves. In 1966, at the height of the British Invasion, rock and roll was only allowed to be played on British radio stations for barely two hours a week. The only way people in the U.K. could listen to rock or pop music was by tuning into pirate radio stations broadcasting from boats just off the coast of Britain in the North Sea. In Pirate Radio, previously released as The Boat That Rocked, earlier this year in the U.K., writer/director Richard Curtis tells a fictional story based on the true events of Britain’s rock and roll revolution. Broadcasting live 24/7 from an old tanker turned makeshift radio station, anchored just outside British jurisdiction, is a band of misfit deejays known as Radio Rock.

The story begins when Young Carl is sent by his mother to the ship known as Radio Rock, to spend time with his godfather Quentin, the owner of the radio station, who is played by the always brilliant Bill Nighy. It’s very much a coming of age story, and I think the British equivalent to Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous. Once on board, Young Carl meets the motley crew of deejays. There’s The Count, the flagship American deejay that is constantly pushing the envelope and crossing the line, masterfully portrayed by Philip Seymour Hoffman. There’s the always charismatic, and at times narcissistic Doctor Dave, played by the extremely funny Nick Frost. Another familiar face is that of Flight of the Concords’ manager Brian, actor Rhys Darby, who plays the self proclaimed funny man Angus “the nut” Nutsford. Even though all the faces may not be familiar, this is truly an all-star cast. Each performance is so masterfully executed that you can’t help but feel the authenticity of this film. However, I think one of the most unsung heroes of this film is Ike Hamilton, who plays Harold, the ship’s booth technician. If you watch Ike’s performance throughout the film, I guarantee that you will be totally blown away. Every little nuance that he brings to the character of Harold just radiates brilliantly off the screen. If you’re reading this after you have already seen the film, I highly recommend seeing it again for Ike’s performance alone. But, if you’re anything like me you’ll already want to see this movie again regardless.

The other side of this story is that of the British government and their efforts to stop the pirate radio ships from broadcasting. This task is helmed by Sir Alistair Dormandy, played by Kenneth Branagh, and his new assistant Mr. Twatt. I’m not kidding, his last name is Twatt. And, yes Richard Curtis takes full advantage of it. Twatt is played by Coupling’s Jack Davenport. Now, don’t worry. The political stuff doesn’t weigh down the story at all. Mostly because it’s not an overpowering plotline and it also lends itself to some of the film’s funnier scenes. I dare you not to laugh or at least snicker every time Dormandy says, “Twatt.”

Richard Curtis has, as always, done a masterful job telling this story. His unique vision, and heart warming style of storytelling, makes Pirate Radio/The Boat That Rocked a must see film. Every part of this film oozes 1966. The wardrobe is fantastic, the soundtrack is to die for, and even the look of the film itself sets the tone. It’s almost as if the film was shot and processed in 1966. Adding to the film’s authenticity, the bulk of the movie was shot onboard an actual ship, just off the south coast of England. Richard Curtis’ first cut of the film had a running time that was just over three hours. The final cut of The Boat That Rocked had a two hours and fifteen minute running time, where as the final cut for Pirate Radio has a one hour and fifty-six minute running time. I’ve seen the U.K. version of the film and enjoy both cuts, but I have to say this film is so enjoyable that I wouldn’t mind sitting though the three hour cut at some point. Most of the missing scenes from the first cut of the film appear on the U.K. DVD release of The Boat That Rocked. (U.K. DVD review will be posted soon) The two major scenes that were cut from The Boat That Rocked for the U.S. release of Pirate Radio consists of a visit to the Radio Rock ship from a large group of contest winners, and the other is the unseen stag party in London. The scenes aren’t necessarily needed, but this movie is so, as I said before, enjoyable that I don’t think you could ever get enough of these characters.

I realize this review is quickly becoming a mini-novel, but I think I would be crucified if I didn’t at least talk about the music in the film. As you would imagine, this movie is chock-full of classic rock from the likes of The Who, The Kinks, The Turtles, and so many more. Both the U.K. release, and the U.S. release of the soundtrack feature a two disc edition with 36 tracks to take you back. Also, the opening credit graphics are fantastic! The use of the radio tuner dial transitioning from scene to scene, as The Kinks’ “All Day and All of the Night” blares, instantly sucks you into the world of the movie. But, I think one of my favorite things was the use of the album covers in the end credits. It not only instills you with a fantastic sense of the history of rock and roll, but it also makes you want to listen to some great albums you might not have listened to in awhile. The bottom line here should be obvious at this point, but needless to say I highly recommend this movie no matter which version you see.

Rating:

The Boat That Rocked U.K. DVD Special Features: COMING SOON