時(shí)尚攝影師Greg Kadel操刀，模特Valery Kaufman演繹Numéro雜志#169刊,2015-2016跨年版

PHOTOGRAPHER:GREG KADEL.MODEL(S):VALERY KAUFMAN.SOURCE:NUMéRO MAGAZINE.STYLIST:CHARLES VARENNE.MAKEUP:MAUD LACEPPE.HAIR:WARD STEGERHOEK.

Valery Kaufmanplays a decadent heiress with time on her hands byGreg KadelforNuméro#169, Dec/Jan 2015-16. The aire of avant-garde intention fills the room like so many flowers waiting to bloom. Decadent wares fall in the form of high fantasy, as haute couture finds itself in the dark arms of fashion ecstasy. Poised to perfection,Kadelrides the lines of delight as all things go weary in the dead of night.Charles Varennematches the tempestuous yearnings of turn of the century style, with passionate power that penetrates the page. Accessories float over the body like deep riches found in the baron sea, as golden chandeliers dangle from the ears fusing old and new. Beguiling beauty beckons us back asMaud Laceppeinvitesbejewelled artistry forward. Dare to embrace the romantic era as we deign to explore two types of makeup. Deep eyes carry a vintage vibe, with (V) for victory, in shadowed lines that surround the outside lids. Inviting us to soar, the imagination hits with a twist as gems sparkle just under the orbital area. The duty of dark brows bring drama, as no mascara seems to follow a seasonal trend. Powder presses on, as a pouf is cast over the skin leaving an incandescent glow to shine. Orange floods the face in a flash of poetic instinct, like a mouth melting, lipstick beckons as it bleeds. Hairstylist,Ward Stegerhoek, gives us a partial view of headgear, with crafted coiffure that’s made to give the story a sense of direction…

Stop is to start and go is to gone as what we feel is an empty, young song. A rhymeless ryhthmwe speak out of tune leaving us with nothing but doom. Through the art of intention comes the tenement of truth, ariotousbelief in the relevance of youth.Abundance is spoken in the spectacle of scene as beauty if felt like art in a dream. So we’ll fly like an eagle leaving our sins as sadness it scatters to the four winds. poetic prose – tanyajo