Marmite-Sue (to be found at http://pickled.free.fr/index_en.html ) is an enchantress.
The creator of Angel Egg dolls has opened the gateway to another world-a more ethereal, more beautiful world populated by, well…angels.
I call them that because it’s impossible to call these dolls anything else. They are magical and luminous, while still managing to evoke a sense of mystery. One of the most striking features of these dolls is their ”porcelain lace” feature, which is just as lovely as it sounds and is shown in the doll in the image provided. It also encapsulates, for me, the entire spirit of Angel Egg dolls-something that is elegant but also enduring, delicate yet refined. Frail and beautiful. But that frailness is deceptive; like old goddesses she has been passed through fire to remain perfect.
This particular doll has such personality. The delicate, yet comtemplative, tilt of her head moves me to think that she is observing me as much as I am observing her. The ribbons twining her ankles, back and neck are exquisite ornamentation, yet they may also hide a secret of this doll. I cannot look at her and not love her; to see her is to love her.
Marmite Sue has brought the ball-jointed-doll art form to a level that is sublime. I can only, inadequately, thank her for my making my thoughts and dreams more beautiful.
Anonymous asked: You're a complete idiot
Awwwwwww you’re so sweeeeet and charming and brave
vikkimadethings:
[Image: A poster made out of fabric: a hot pink background with white flowers; a pale torso down to the upper thighs and part of two arms are visible. One hand is on a belly covered in stretch marks made of pink zigzag stitches and shiny purple fabric, and orange stitches meant to show folds. I tried to give the body pink pubes but it just looks like underwear, ha. In purple, brown and pink letters, it says “STRETCHMARKS ARE” and then against a solid pink background, “BEAUTIFUL.”]
LOOKS WAY BETTER IN PERSON! I realize the body looks ‘messy’ but that’s kind of my point in writing about stretch marks; how bodies don’t have to be smooth and neat and symmetrical to be beautiful. So that’s okay. I might re-upload this when I get a chance to picture it in daylight so you can see it better.
(EDIT 11/14/11) Here’s the text that goes along with it:
Stretch marks are beautiful, despite what the commercials say. They are not scars symbolizing pain, requiring creams to disappear the marks; they are not holes in your skin symbolizing the voids in your personality. Your skin is beautiful, whether or not it’s covered in cocoa butter. “Flaws” are created because “flaws” are profitable. The commercials sell you products to fill in the mythical voids, to fix the so-called unwanted character that your body so regrettably developed. But your skin is not wrong, and it does not require correction.
Stretch marks are beautiful, despite what your classmates said. In the 6th grade lunch line she pointed to the pink lightning bolts peeking from beneath your t-shirt sleeve in horror. Ewww! You insisted it was just ink, a likely story, and from then on vowed to always wear shirts with longer sleeves. But your t-shirt, the black and gold printed t-shirt with your favorite band’s name on it, soft from constant wear and wash, showed your stretch marks. You loved that t-shirt more than any other garment you owned. What was the moment you learned that conforming to impossible standards of beauty was more important than the things you love?
Stretch marks are beautiful, despite the pressures of a pool party. How many summers did you spend inside, or swimming solo in your backyard in less-than-ideal swimwear to save your peers the horror of having to see your skin? How often did you come inside afterward to examine your wet skin, only to imagine ripping it open, creating deep straight scars atop the jagged ones? When did you decide that being aesthetically pleasing to others was more important than living?
Stretch marks are beautiful, even when they lose their symmetry. The day you learned to love the mirrored bolts on either side of your belly button did not lose its significance the day more marks appeared, leaving your tummy asymmetrical, spotted, sloppy. Bodies aren’t meant to be static and neat. When did you learn to fear the inevitable body change? When you were a child and you sprouted upwards and outwards, your bones were simply too excited to grow and your skin couldn’t keep up. Never shame your body’s enthusiasm to grow. Your body will continue to expand and change and your skin will continue its amazing process of adapting even when its elasticity is not enough.
No matter where, no matter why and no matter how many—stretch marks are beautiful.
First of all. Fuck you. In the words of my beloved Sherlock fandom, I’m surprised you can even type with cake in both hands.
See how mean that is? It’s a bit rude to resort to insults to boost your own self-esteem, isn’t it? Battle scars need to be covered up with “cream” and piercings are “voids in [my] personality”.
Wow, okay. I hadn’t realized that the fight for a positive body image included putting other people down for their personal choices. Isn’t that, uh, what you accuse the skinny mafia meanie meanies of?
You have a very strange idea of beauty-one that’s pretty exclusive and mean spirited. Stretch marks are beautiful put piercings aren’t. Fat arms are beautiful but skinny limbs aren’t. You do know that it’s possible to be keen on your own body without insulting other people, riiiight?
Here, I’ll give it a whirl:
I’m currently twenty one years old and I weigh ninety pounds. I don’t have an eating disorder (unless having an eating disorder entails eating whatever the fuck you want whenever the fuck you want) but I often get accused of one, which is annoying. I have pink and green hair and reeeally big pupils and spidery fingers. My lips are kind of heart shaped. My hair grows like a madhouse and I’m pretty happy with the way I look, mostly.
See that? In no way did I insult people of a different size, or people who don’t have their hair dyed watermelon colours, or people who have average sized pupils.
You know how you post all that shit on your blog that states that anyone who calls a fat person fat is an asshole? I’m not actually disagreeing with you. I am, however, saying that being fat is not an excuse to be an asshole to everybody else.
Get it?
Anaïs Nin in Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome (1954, Kenneth Anger)
A masquerade party for which guests were encouraged to “Come as your madness,” inspired one of the guests—avant-garde filmmaker Kenneth Anger—to create Inauguration of the Pleasuredome (now considered a key work in experimental film) in which famed diarist Nin and other notable figures appeared. One of the most iconic scenes is an abstraction of the costume Nin wore at the party, which she describes below.
I wore a skin-colored leotard, leopard-fur earrings glued to my breasts, and a leopard-fur belt around my waist. Gil Henderson painted on my bare back a vivid jungle scene. I wore eyelashes two inches long. My hair was dusted with gold powder. My head was inside of a birdcage. From within the cage, through the open gate, I pulled out an endless roll of paper on which I had written lines from my books. The ticker tape of the unconscious. I unwound this and handed everyone a strip with a message. (Diary 5 133) (Read more and see the original costume.)
Right now I am so pleased to be named after this woman
(via clarabow)
Anonymous asked: you're an attention whore
No you’re a jellybean tree
to stick me in that ugly place firmly between hero and villain. I don’t want to be swathed in grey-I want to be clothed in light like a knife or dazzling in midnight black. But the truth of it is this: I am not good, and I am not nearly cool enough to be bad.
I suppose faeries get to ride the twilight but I tire of stormclouds
I’ll try to be as neat about it as possible. Or maybe not. I never mean any of this, even when I do.
Nevermind-if anyone’s reading this, they should stop. This is being broadcast from a madman’s head-well, mad girl, really. I’m just a pawn, see. Or maybe not just that, but definitely not a hero, which still stings on some level, really. Deep down, in an area that still doesn’t quite belong to-
Nevermind again. Rambling.
He’s inevitable, though. And I’ll help. I’ll pretend not to. Don’t want to. Will.
niire-deactivated20120124 asked: im not sure how you found me to send this, but thanks! and i followed you, nice blog =)
Thank you! I like yours too. And I like your ears.
![vikkimadethings:
[Image: A poster made out of fabric: a hot pink background with white flowers; a pale torso down to the upper thighs and part of two arms are visible. One hand is on a belly covered in stretch marks made of pink zigzag stitches and shiny purple fabric, and orange stitches meant to show folds. I tried to give the body pink pubes but it just looks like underwear, ha. In purple, brown and pink letters, it says “STRETCHMARKS ARE” and then against a solid pink background, “BEAUTIFUL.”]
LOOKS WAY BETTER IN PERSON! I realize the body looks ‘messy’ but that’s kind of my point in writing about stretch marks; how bodies don’t have to be smooth and neat and symmetrical to be beautiful. So that’s okay. I might re-upload this when I get a chance to picture it in daylight so you can see it better.
(EDIT 11/14/11) Here’s the text that goes along with it:
Stretch marks are beautiful, despite what the commercials say. They are not scars symbolizing pain, requiring creams to disappear the marks; they are not holes in your skin symbolizing the voids in your personality. Your skin is beautiful, whether or not it’s covered in cocoa butter. “Flaws” are created because “flaws” are profitable. The commercials sell you products to fill in the mythical voids, to fix the so-called unwanted character that your body so regrettably developed. But your skin is not wrong, and it does not require correction.
Stretch marks are beautiful, despite what your classmates said. In the 6th grade lunch line she pointed to the pink lightning bolts peeking from beneath your t-shirt sleeve in horror. Ewww! You insisted it was just ink, a likely story, and from then on vowed to always wear shirts with longer sleeves. But your t-shirt, the black and gold printed t-shirt with your favorite band’s name on it, soft from constant wear and wash, showed your stretch marks. You loved that t-shirt more than any other garment you owned. What was the moment you learned that conforming to impossible standards of beauty was more important than the things you love?
Stretch marks are beautiful, despite the pressures of a pool party. How many summers did you spend inside, or swimming solo in your backyard in less-than-ideal swimwear to save your peers the horror of having to see your skin? How often did you come inside afterward to examine your wet skin, only to imagine ripping it open, creating deep straight scars atop the jagged ones? When did you decide that being aesthetically pleasing to others was more important than living?
Stretch marks are beautiful, even when they lose their symmetry. The day you learned to love the mirrored bolts on either side of your belly button did not lose its significance the day more marks appeared, leaving your tummy asymmetrical, spotted, sloppy. Bodies aren’t meant to be static and neat. When did you learn to fear the inevitable body change? When you were a child and you sprouted upwards and outwards, your bones were simply too excited to grow and your skin couldn’t keep up. Never shame your body’s enthusiasm to grow. Your body will continue to expand and change and your skin will continue its amazing process of adapting even when its elasticity is not enough.
No matter where, no matter why and no matter how many—stretch marks are beautiful.
First of all. Fuck you. In the words of my beloved Sherlock fandom, I’m surprised you can even type with cake in both hands.
See how mean that is? It’s a bit rude to resort to insults to boost your own self-esteem, isn’t it? Battle scars need to be covered up with “cream” and piercings are “voids in [my] personality”.
Wow, okay. I hadn’t realized that the fight for a positive body image included putting other people down for their personal choices. Isn’t that, uh, what you accuse the skinny mafia meanie meanies of?
You have a very strange idea of beauty-one that’s pretty exclusive and mean spirited. Stretch marks are beautiful put piercings aren’t. Fat arms are beautiful but skinny limbs aren’t. You do know that it’s possible to be keen on your own body without insulting other people, riiiight?
Here, I’ll give it a whirl:
I’m currently twenty one years old and I weigh ninety pounds. I don’t have an eating disorder (unless having an eating disorder entails eating whatever the fuck you want whenever the fuck you want) but I often get accused of one, which is annoying. I have pink and green hair and reeeally big pupils and spidery fingers. My lips are kind of heart shaped. My hair grows like a madhouse and I’m pretty happy with the way I look, mostly.
See that? In no way did I insult people of a different size, or people who don’t have their hair dyed watermelon colours, or people who have average sized pupils.
You know how you post all that shit on your blog that states that anyone who calls a fat person fat is an asshole? I’m not actually disagreeing with you. I am, however, saying that being fat is not an excuse to be an asshole to everybody else.
Get it?](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lu9wez33WQ1r4o29bo1_1280.jpg)
