Cicciolina takes you on a journey of revenge, lust, and sacrifice. What many would see as a stunning young woman turns out to be a cunning vixen, rotten as an apple hung too long on the tree well into fall. Left by her father too early in life, the victim of men and their lecherous eyes, scarred from years of broken hearts and lies, our darling Cicciolina takes to the road. With her suitcase in tow she hunts, patiently, innocently - driven by a well calculated plan. Taking a man's car, his heart, and much more to make peace with the pagan Gods who haunt her night after night. Every lover a lamb to the slaughter. The roles were reversed and the wolf now slayed. A quick flick of the wrist and the tables turn, she claims his heart, his soul to burn. Sadness and anger the fertilizer for her growing orchard of mistrust, deceit and revenge. Revenge upon the entire species. The petal to the metal, every mile adding to her intoxicating allure. In search of an oblation, a sacrificial lamb to cleanse her dark soul. If you have wheels that catch her eye and a selfish hunger that you can't disguise, be warned, you will be next to find the burn that comes from meeting her rope. The rope that bound it all, that kept her secrets wrapped up tight, was the one thing that onlookers could see but few could truly know just how special it really was. Much more than a rope, a trusted tool, a friend to the end. Riding in magenta moon light -- she's after a prize tonight! Though, she won't be leaving this one in the ditch to waste, instead she'll be taking him to her sacred place. She'll grace him with the honor of a ride in her coffer and sink him in her pond as a special offer. There could be nothing more intimate, nothing more treasured, than filling the role of her offering to her pagan fathers, a gift meant to deter her lingering nightmares, another required lamb to keep the ghosts fed, to keep them beyond her. ~ Francesca
The human dream is by no means a requiem for a dream where one has to be asleep to believe it, but rather a dream where you have to be alert and creative to bring it to full bloom. As Miss Liberty addresses the consumer culture in the American dreams: the ‘Dream of Abundance’ offering a cornucopia of material goods to all Americans, making them proud to be the richest society on earth; the ‘Dream of Democracy of Goods’ whereby everyone has access to the same products regardless of race, gender, ethnicity, or class; the ‘Dream of Freedom of Choice’ with its ever expanding variety of goods allow people to fashion their own particular lifestyle. ~ Shadia Alem
The misty afternoon sunk into the tall grass growing on the roadside. An angel's face showing up at the crossroad. Could ya give me a lift, Mista? Cicciolina came from Sicil-y, hitchhiked her way across Ital-y. Hauling her case, thumbin’ a ride. Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. She is free in her wildness, she is a wanderess, a drop of free water. She knows nothing of borders and cares nothing for rules. Time for her isn’t something to fight against. Her life flows clean, with passion, like fresh water. As for you girls, you must risk everything for freedom, and give everything for passion, loving everything that your hearts and your bodies love. The only thing higher for a girl and more sacred for a young woman than her freedom and her passion should be her desire to make her life into poetry, surrendering everything she has to create a life as beautiful as the dreams that dance in her imagination. You may call her a tramp, a gipsy, but it goes deeper than that. She's not looking for anything. She's not aimless. It's just that her aims are different from most. No longer to be poisoned by civilization she flees, and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild. Home she wrote -- Dear Mom, I've hitchhiked to eternity. I shalt not return. Don't be mad.
Hey mister! You who are sitting there on the hill with that little photographic jar box in your hands, when you look at me what do you see? So few people take the time anymore. Do you see how I am shackled to this shoreline fated to dream of the ocean but never swim in it? My antennae feel it's pulse, I gauge its flow and current. I am steadfast in my consistency unaffected by storm or condition and did you know that my design was created when Jesus was a boy? My arms may be old, my skill obsolete but do not write me off just yet. Old is anyone who stops learning and tired don't mean lazy. My every goodbye is not yet gone, so take my picture won't you? Because I read somewhere that photographs give an appearance of participation. Let me tell you boy, aging don't need no fairytales. ~ Kalahari
Ordinary women never appeal to one’s imagination. No glamour ever transfigures them. One can always find them, obtainable everywhere. No mystery is in any of them. They show their stereotyped smile and their fashionable manner. They are quite obvious. From her handbag she takes a round gilt compact with violets on the cover. She opens it, unclosing her other self, and runs her fingertip around the corners of her mouth, left one, right one; then she swivels a pink stick and dots her cheeks and blends them, changing her shape, performing magic to herself. Pink on the cheeks; black discreetly around the eyes, as red as blood as black as ebony, a seamed and folded imitation of a magazine picture that is itself an imitation of a woman who is also an imitation, the original nowhere, a captive princess in someone’s head. Even an immaculately crafted porcelain doll couldn’t have been as lovely. Beauty is given to dolls, majesty to haughty vixens, but mind, feeling and the crowning grace of fortitude are the attributes of an angel.
I’ll stop wearing black when they invent a darker color! There was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smoldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands looking him flush in the eye. Then she wet her lips, and without turning around spoke to him in a soft, coarse voice: “If you want to be safe, go back to your tiny house - the night sky is not for you. The road is life, if you want to be torn apart, let’s go and you will be broken open and devoured, set ablaze in my fire not leaving well dressed, in finely-threaded clothing that keeps out the cold. I will leave you naked and biting in the backseat. So, come to me, and be healed of the unbearable white and black of all that you are. I will become a raging river, and spill myself upon your thoughts, can you love me under the starry sky, shaved and smooth, my skin like liquid moonlight?” Perception is everything and she drove him to distraction as he intimately pictured her in his dreams. She is the quintessential instinctual criatura and her style is her expression. Her style is her silent speech, a certain flow of mind-to-skin that must be understood. Black has it all, white too, their beauty is absolute. Her style is her sentiment, it is what she shares, it’s those intimate words she shares every time she looks into the mirror -- or every time she looks at her photographs.
The Farmer’s daughters watched in the rain. The prettiest, shyest one hid far back in the field to watch and she had good reason because she was absolutely and finally the most beautiful girl. She was about sixteen, and had a plain complexion like wild roses, and the bluest eyes, the most lovely hair, and the modesty and quickness of a wild antelope. At every look she flinched. She stood there with the immense winds that blew clear down from Saskatchewan knocking her hair about her lovely head like shrouds, living curls of them. She blushed and blushed. Oh, a girl like that scares me, and I’d give up everything and throw myself on her mercy and if she didn’t want me I’d just as simply go and throw myself off the edge of the world. It’s okay, girl, we’ll make it till the sun goes down forever. And until then what you got to lose but the losing? We’re fallen angels who didn’t believe that nothing means nothing. We are nothing. Tomorrow we may be die -- we are nothing, you and me.
It is as important where a young man begins his journey with daydreams, as when. Fantasies spawned in youth, with lily pad squatters croaking out nature’s secrets, stir the imagination and set a boy to wonderment. The depths of dark ponds hold the mysteries of life, none of which can be seen by the naked eye. Yet, the agile mind of boyhood finds, caverns and creatures seemingly not of this world, not of these times. Silver scaled beasts diving and darting. Snake tailed salamanders lurking amongst the brush, glimpses of color against a black and white backdrop. The hum of a dragonfly, off on a mission, carrying precious information to woodland allies hidden nearby. The mystique of hard shelled guardians that rise to the surface in calming silence to offer a warning, stay up top to avoid the marsh monsters. As you can see, fishing for whales is not easy work, with their tall tails spinning even taller tales. The riddles of the life of a man begin with a boy, a pole, and rickety boat. ~ Francesca
The point in photography is that you picture what you know is there not what you can see. Am I in the picture? Am I getting in or out of it? I could be a ghost, an animal or a dead body, not just this woman placed against the sky. Photographs don’t discriminate between the living and the dead. In the fragments of time and shards of light that compose them, everyone is equal. Now you see us; now you don’t. It doesn’t matter whether you look through a camera lens and press the shutter. It doesn’t even matter whether you open your eyes or close them. The pictures are always there. And so are the people in them. We can’t get outside the aura. We’re part of the aura. We’re here, we’re now.
Bare feet and bare soul, I think I’ll keep walking ‘til I don’t feel so alone. How is it that the mind can wander even when there’s nowhere to go? Asphalt might seem rough to some, but to me it is the grating pain that reminds me I’m alive. A pebble to the heel is as exquisite as a sharp knife. I stop for a moment and remind myself to take it all in. The ethereal valley before me is surely a charming viridescent hue, how is it I see only in grays? They say that when one of our senses is weakened another is heightened. This must be true, because I am so acutely aware of the silence that I’m sure I could hear the wind, were it ever to decide to blow again. How I ache for a morning zephyr to kiss my hollow cheek. I wonder how many, if any, feet have touched the same spot on which I stand. How many have been lost on their journey and found themselves in this wanderers land? ~ Francesca
Limited Editions are exclusive: printed in large format, restricted to a maximum of three prints and are never issued as open editions. Open Editions are available at budget prices in formats from DIN A4 upwards. Mini Prints serve as free autograph cards »» see PRINTS