If I can’t have what I want, what’s the point of having anything at all?

I need round 2 this week


from Denton Welch’s “Maiden Voyage”. (New York: E.P. Dutton/Obelisk, 1968). Double-page illustration by the author preceding the half-title page.
They’re cartouches … but unlike the decorative grotesqueries of Ottomar Elliger III ( ), all rushing gushes of pluming festoonery, celebrations of teeming corpulence and courtside hedonism, in Welch’s hand the intent seems withered, brittle, enfeebled and even slightly menacing. The style itself mimics the most corrupt and degraded of spit-bit etchings, the last scratchy bleeding dregs peeled from an all-but-exhausted plate … and of what?: a stunned bug naively biting into a snapped twig of poison sumac, a haughty mothy parrot lording over a petrified dropping, insisting on its resemblance to an armillary sphere … and around each, tumbling debris, decay, cracked entablatures, ruins, barren branches, dry husks instead of flowers… There are draperies in Denton Welch but they’re all soiled drab and tattered, coiled garlands and looping swags of grimy old dishtowels …

This serves as a mood board, representing my inspiration in art, fashion, nature, and history.
::I don't claim any of these photos to be mine,unless I clearly state it's mine::