I’ve been curating a collection of stories on Medium about a place called Cannon Town – have a look here.
Hugh Ferriss was a 20th century architect who influenced many subsequent generations. In his visionary 1929 book, Ferriss sets out his vision of the structure of future cities. The book is divided in three parts: a description of New York as Ferriss saw it , with drawings of the most important building built in the 1920s; a review of new architectural trends, new ideas, and new materials and techniques; and finally, and most amazingly, a possible layout for a visionary city, dominated by steel and glass.
I mean, just look at these drawings: it’s Gotham and Metropolis and Brazil and THX1138 all rolled into one, every single utopian or dystopian movie set right here, dreams in black and white. Continue reading… (70 words)
More digging through my old website of the 90s – and this time it’s a classic: a personal essay (in French) about the sociological and political critique in Max Headroom! I especially love that I went through the trouble of making an image map of the characters (Netcape only, mind you). I’ve put some excerpts on this page, but you will have to head over to the original page here to see all of it. Continue reading… (614 words)
I’ve been digging through my files and old website – it’s quite surprising how prolific I was back in the nineties, and how many topics I was interested in. One of the things that I made webpages about was the Maison de Verre, Pierre Chareau‘s transparent house in Paris. I wrote a short introduction and also translated part of Adam Gopnik’s 1994 New Yorker article so that more information would be available in French. Gopnik lived in the house for a while, and his description of the effect of living in the house is to me more interesting than any facts about its architecture or about the ideals behind it. Continue reading… (501 words)
A word of introduction – my name is Gilda Maurice, I am French, I have been living in London for almost 15 years, and I have been writing short stories and other fiction from an early age. Most of it was scattered around so I will keep it all in one place from now on – here.
She was standing at the edge of the clearing waiting for him to come in. She’d rubbed her fur against a tree and she was feeling groomed, pelt shining and smooth, free of burrs. She had gone to the river and brushed her head and ears under the water and shaken herself dry, the shaggy hair around her throat fluffing up. She felt beautiful. She was ready. She was waiting. Continue reading… (910 words)
Hunched in his trenchcoat, the little man limped down the alleyway. A grey darkness and the smell of discarded burger wrappers surrounded him. He hated the city. The sky was too low and, in the alleyways, the windowless buildings pressed too close together. The little man was not the kind of person to ever wish for anything: he knew whatever he wanted, he did not deserve it. But in the alleyways he felt a yearning to be back on the road. He had been thrown out of the circus; he couldn’t go back there, not after what had happened. He’d have to start again. Start again with another show, other people who didn’t know him, another act. Something so amazing, so good, nobody would ask where he’d been before.
As he thought dark thoughts something darker than the darkness of the alleyway moved to his right. Something fluid. Continue reading… (1102 words)
Four stripes on the crossing, twenty-one slats on the fence in front of Mr Jenkins’ house, eighteen feet of adults waiting at the bus stop, sixty-three stitches on the hem of the lady’s dress in the opposite seat. Mike’s mother holds his hand firmly. They are on their way to the doctor’s again.
More tests. Mike knows he can’t press his face against the wall and count the fibres in the old wallpaper, because it makes his mother upset. He swivels on his chair, three pushes to a full turn. His mother and the doctor are talking: two tired voices. Mike counts the heartbeats in his chest. The number is always the same. Continue reading… (160 words)
So this sheep was there at the foot of the office building, its leg folded at a strange angle, and it seemed, well, it seemed as if it had jumped. This was an unusual case, obviously, but forensics did their job and found the hoof marks on the window. There little bits of wool on the broken glass. Witnesses said the animal had seemed determined. It had run straight at the double-glazing while the other office workers watched frozen, cups and bagels still halfway to their mouths, fingers poised above the keyboard. Obviously motive was difficult to determine, you know, it was a sheep. And as to what it was doing there, nobody knew. Most of the workers had assumed it was a motivational aid brought in by management. Continue reading… (137 words)
I am a monster. My brothers and sisters scurry around me; they have brought me crumbs and bit of rotten vegetables, the only thing they managed to get from the masters today. They climb on me and deposit the food in my mouth, while my arms and legs wave helplessly in the air.
It’s dark here, dark and damp, and warm. I can hear them all whisper around me. They think I cannot understand them, because my voice is a strange senseless gargle, but I can. Continue reading… (965 words)