Monday, July 28, 2014

John Le Carré on Philip Seymour Hoffman / Staring at the Flame


Staring at the Flame

John Le Carré on Philip Seymour Hoffman

By John Le Carré
The New York Times, July 17, 2014

I reckon I spent five hours at most in Philip Seymour Hoffman’s close company, six at a pinch. Otherwise it was standing around with other people on the set of “A Most Wanted Man,” watching him on the monitor and afterward telling him he was great, or deciding better to keep your thoughts to yourself. I didn’t even do a lot of that: a couple of visits to the set, one silly walk-on part that required me to grow a disgusting beard, took all day and delivered a smudgy picture of somebody I was grateful not to recognize. There’s probably nobody more redundant in the film world than a writer of origin hanging around the set of his movie, as I’ve learned to my cost. Alec Guinness actually did me the favor of having me shown off the set of the BBC’s TV adaptation of “Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.” All I was wanting to do was radiate my admiration, but Alec said my glare was too intense.

Come to think of it, Philip did the same favor for a woman friend of ours one afternoon on the shoot of “A Most Wanted Man” in Hamburg that winter of 2012. She was standing in a group 30-odd yards away from him, just watching and getting cold like everybody else. But something about her bothered him, and he had her removed. It was a little eerie, a little psychic, but he was bang on target because the woman in the case is a novelist, too, and she can do intensity with the best of us. Philip didn’t know that. He just sniffed it.

Philip Seymour Hoffman, left, and John le Carré, during the filming of “A Most Wanted Man,”
which opens on July 25.

In retrospect, nothing of that kind surprised me about Philip, because his intuition was luminous from the instant you met him. So was his intelligence. A lot of actors act intelligent, but Philip was the real thing: a shining, artistic polymath with an intelligence that came at you like a pair of headlights and enveloped you from the moment he grabbed your hand, put a huge arm round your neck and shoved a cheek against yours; or if the mood took him, hugged you to him like a big, pudgy schoolboy, then stood and beamed at you while he took stock of the effect.

Philip took vivid stock of everything, all the time. It was painful and exhausting work, and probably in the end his undoing. The world was too bright for him to handle. He had to screw up his eyes or be dazzled to death. Like Chatterton, he went seven times round the moon to your one, and every time he set off, you were never sure he’d come back, which is what I believe somebody said about the German poet Hölderlin: Whenever he left the room, you were afraid you’d seen the last of him. And if that sounds like wisdom after the event, it isn’t. Philip was burning himself out before your eyes. Nobody could live at his pace and stay the course, and in bursts of startling intimacy he needed you to know it.

A Most Wanted Man trailer
Philip Seymour Hoffman, with Rachel McAdams, in “A Most Wanted Man,” based on the John le Carré novel. CreditKerry Brown/Roadside Attractions

No actor had ever made quite the impact on me that Philip did at that first encounter: not Richard Burton, not Burt Lancaster or even Alec Guinness. Philip greeted me as if he’d been waiting to meet me all his life, which I suspect was how he greeted everyone. But I’d been waiting to meet Philip for a long time. I reckoned his “Capote” the best single performance I’d seen on screen. But I didn’t dare tell him that, because there’s always a danger with actors, when you tell them how great they were nine years ago, that they demand to know what’s been wrong with their performances ever since.

But I did tell him that he was the only American actor I knew who could play my character George Smiley, a role first graced by Guinness in the BBC “Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy,” and more recently by Gary Oldman in the big-screen adaptation — but then, as a loyal Brit, I was claiming Gary Oldman for our own.

Perhaps I was also remembering that, like Guinness, Philip wasn’t much of a lover on screen, but mercifully, we didn’t have to bother about that in our movie. If Philip had to take a girl in his arms, you didn’t actually blush and look away as you did with Guinness, but you couldn’t help feeling that somehow he was doing it for you rather than himself.

Our filmmakers had a lot of discussion about whether they could get Philip into bed with somebody, and it’s an interesting thought that when they did finally come up with a proposal, both partners ran a mile. It was only when the magnificent actress Nina Hoss appeared beside him that the makers realized they were looking at a small miracle of romantic failure. In her role, which was hastily bulked out, she is Philip’s adoring work mate, acolyte and steadying hand, and he breaks her heart.

That suited Philip just fine. His role of Günther Bachmann, middle-aged German intelligence officer on the skids, did not allow for enduring love or any other kind. Philip had made that decision from Day 1 and to rub it in, carried a well-thumbed paperback copy of my novel around with him — and what author of origin could ask more? — to brandish in the face of anyone who wanted to sex the story up.

Mr. Hoffman, right, on that film’s set with the director, Anton Corbijn, far left, and Willem Dafoe.CreditKerry Brown/Roadside Attractions

The movie of “A Most Wanted Man” also features Rachel McAdams and Willem Dafoe, and opens in a cinema near you, I hope, so start saving now. It was shot almost entirely in Hamburg and Berlin, and numbers in its cast some of Germany’s most distinguished actors in relatively humble roles, not only the sublime Nina Hoss (the film “Barbara”), but also Daniel Brühl (“Rush”).

In the novel, Bachmann is a secret agent on his uppers. Well, Philip can relate to that. The character’s been whisked home from Beirut after losing his precious spy network to the clumsiness or worse of the C.I.A. He has been put out to grass in Hamburg, the city that played host to the 9/11 conspirators. Its regional intelligence arm, and many of its citizens, are still living with that embarrassment.

Bachmann’s self-devised mission is to put the score straight: not by way of snatch teams, waterboards and extrajudicial killings, but by the artful penetration of spies, by espousal, by using the enemy’s own weight to bring him down, and the consequent disarming of jihadism from within.

Over a fancy dinner with the filmmakers and the high end of the cast, I don’t remember either Philip or myself talking much about the actual role of Bachmann; just more generally, about such things as the care and maintenance of secret agents and the pastoral role incumbent on their agent runners. Forget blackmail, I said. Forget the macho. Forget sleep deprivation, locking people in boxes, simulated executions and other enhancements. The best agents, snitches, joes, informants or whatever you want to call them, I pontificated, needed patience, understanding and loving care. I like to think he took my homily to heart, but more likely he was wondering whether he could use a bit of that soupy expression I put on when I’m trying to impress.

Mr. Hoffman as a German intelligence officer on the skids in “A Most Wanted Man.”CreditKerry Brown/Roadside Attraction

It’s hard now to write with detachment about Philip’s performance as a desperate middle-aged man going amok, or the way he fashioned the arc of his character’s self-destruction. He was directed, of course. And the director, Anton Corbijn, a cultural polymath in Philip’s class, is many wonderful things: photographer of world renown, pillar of the contemporary music scene and himself the subject of a documentary film. His first feature,“Control” in black and white, is iconic. He is currently making a movie about James Dean. Yet for all that, his creative talents, where I have seen them at work, strike me as inward and sovereign to himself. He would be the last person, I suspect, to describe himself as a theoretical dramatist, or articulate communicator about the inner life of a character. Philip had to have that dialogue with himself, and it must have been a pretty morbid one, filled with questions like: At which point exactly do I lose all sense of moderation? Or, why do I insist on going through with this whole thing when deep down I know it can only end in tragedy? But tragedy lured Bachmann like a wrecker’s lamp, and it lured Philip, too.

There was a problem about accents. We had really good German actors who spoke English with a German accent. Collective wisdom dictated, not necessarily wisely, that Philip should do the same. For the first few minutes of listening to him, I thought, “Crikey.” No German I knew spoke English like this. He did a mouth thing, a kind of pout. He seemed to kiss his lines rather than speak them. Then gradually he did what only the greatest actors can do. He made his voice the only authentic one, the lonely one, the odd one out, the one you depended on amid all the others. And every time it left the stage, like the great man himself, you waited for its return with impatience and mounting unease.

We shall wait a long time for another Philip.

John le Carré is the author of “A Most Wanted Man” and, most recently, “A Delicate Truth.” “A Most Wanted Man” will be in theaters on Friday.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

Charles Graeber's top 10 true crime books

Charles Graeber's top 10 true crime books

The true crime genre has a bad reputation, often providing pulp with tabloid appeal, but there are some stone-cold classics
Truman Capote, true crime top 10View larger picture
On the scene … Truman Capote in 1967 in the Clutter house, where the murders described in In Cold Blood took place. Photograph: Steve Schapiro/Corbis
The most prolific serial killer in American history refused to speak with anybody. Then he started talking to me. Eight years later, the result is The Good Nurse, a book which, as a work of non-fiction with murder involved, is shelved in the genre of true crime. Which isn't, strictly speaking, a compliment.
  1. The Good Nurse: A True Story of Medicine, Madness and Murder
  2. by Charles Graeber

You'll find no section in your bookseller for true history, or true memoir or true politics (though perhaps you should). Only crime gets treated like a criminal. It's as if the unethical subject matter has rubbed off on the writer and the writing.
Some of that reputation is deserved. Many "true crime" offerings are pulpy quickies with a tabloid heart and tabloid brains – human tragedy served as porno McNuggets. (Actually, that description fails. I'd like porno McNuggets, they sound yummy. But these books turn out the opposite – stale and flat as cardboard, and, frankly, "untrue".)
Happily, hidden among this genre are a heap of fulfilling standouts. The term given to books like these is "literary true crime". It's the triple-modified backhanded compliment and the term still seems a bit overwrought. Try introducing your lover as a "lovely, devout and a reformed prostitute" and you'll understand.
Whatever the genre title, this section marks the sweetspot of highbrow and low, truth and art, and among the thugs of the genre you'll find master craftspeople holding dirt but wielding the same literary toolkit available to the investigative journalist, the novelist and the poet, creating dirty and deep page-turners with the pacing of a thriller and a setting in the dirtiest of all worlds: the real one.
Narrowing them down to a "top 10" is impossible, but here are some of the best.

1. Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith, by Jon Krakauer

Krakauer is a master journalist and a storyteller who is unfettered by and unafraid of the true crime mantle. Here, he transcends the genre with a story of Mormon brothers Ron and Dan Lafferty, who insisted God gave them commands (commandments?) to kill. Krakauer pries open the golden doors to one of the newest and fastest-growing religions to set the stage for the non-fiction drama.

2. All the President's Men, by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward

Is it too much to ask that a book not only provide a riveting read, but also inform a nation, and change the world? Answer: no. This one took down a presidency. The details are fascinating to journalists and normal people alike, the pacing is surprisingly engaging, and the result is a gumshoe news procedural with a rather happy ending, and a true crime book which became true history.

3. Columbine, by Dave Cullen

Like most folk, I thought I knew what happened during the Columbine, Colorado "trenchcoat mafia" school shooting in on 20 April, 1999. Dave Cullen proved me wrong. He spent a decade pulling out fresh sources and details about the lives of teen murderers Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, then artfully pieced them into a ticking narrative which culminates in a moment-by-moment account of the massacre itself. You'll be ducking under your desk as you read.

4. Blood and Money, by Thomas Thompson

Noir classics such as The Thin Man or The Maltese Falcon are famous partly for the menagerie of bizarre and desperate characters encountered along the way to solving a crime. Investigative journalist and author Thompson finds the same in real-life Texas, as he digs into the 1969 murder of an oil heiress and Houston socialite. Truth here is far stranger than fiction.

5. The Executioner's Song, by Norman Mailer

A literary epic about real crime. In terms of scope and ambition and ego, not to mention length, it's hard to top Mailer's doorstopper about the life, crimes and execution of a Utah murderous drifter named Gary Gilmore. But who cares about the dirtbag - the meat of this book comes from Mailer's partnership with a Hollywood player, which gave him access to the meta-story, as agents and middlemen shamelessly jockey to secure rights to Gilmore's story and execution. It's too good, if too long, and hey, it won the Pulitzer.

6. The Stranger Beside Me: Ted Bundy, the Shocking Inside Story, by Anne Rule

Before Rule became one of the best known American true crime writers, she had a day job working side by side at a suicide hotline centre with Ted Bundy – who she knew as a handsome, charismatic friend, and who the world would later know as a brutal serial killer. Unsettling and personal stuff.

7. Homicide: a year on the Killing Streets, by David Simon

Simon took a hiatus from his job as a Baltimore newspaper reporter to embed with homicide detectives in one of the most dangerous cities in the US, and then a few more to masterfully weave the stories together from all sides – players and the played, cops and baddies and innocents. Aside from providing grist for anyone attempting to understand the hard truths of life in an American warzone, this one of the most readable books here, particularly if you've ever lost a month bingeing on The Wire – a series based largely on this book.

8. Helter Skelter: The True Story of the Manson Murders, by Vincent Bugliosi with Curt Gentry

You can't deny the all-time bestseller of the genre, or the detail-driven dive into the world of Charles Manson and his addled cult known as "the family", written by a prosecutor of the Tate-LaBianca murders with access to all the grim details, partnered with a solid historical writer in Gentry.

9. In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote

This classic cannot be denied, even if sullied by recent questions about Capote's liberties with the facts and his poor treatment of his former friend and researcher, Harper Lee. Capote revelled in shattering notions of what a crime book could be, and the first to raise it to the novelistic level. His dissection of a 1959 home invasion and murder in rural Kansas is as much a drill down on disparate lives and family secrets as it is of the brutal crime itself, and his exclusive access to one of the young murderers is both sympathetic and damning.

10. People Who Eat Darkness: the Fate of Lucie Blackman, by Richard Lloyd Parry

A recent read, and a favourite. In April of 2000, Lucie Blackman was a blonde 21-year-old from Kent who suddenly disappeared into an unmarked door within the labyrinth of Tokyo's "hostess" bar culture. Parry is an award-winning UK foreign correspondent who spent an obsessed decade down the rabbithole of a curious story which got curiouser with each dirty turn. Take on a few chapters and get drawn into the rabbithole yourself. It won't take you 10 years, I promise.

William Styron / In Celebration of Capote

Truman Capote
Photo by Irving Penn

In Celebration of Capote

William Styron bids farewell to his comrade Truman Capote.
By William Styron
Vanity Fair, December 1984

Truman and I were approximately the same age, although when I got to know him he always insisted that I was six weeks older. This was not accurate—it turned out I was several months younger than he was—but it doesn’t matter. I make this point only to underline the appalling chagrin I felt, in my tenderest years as an aspiring, unpublished writer, when I read some of Truman’s earliest work. The first story of his that I read was, I believe, published in Mademoiselle. After I finished it, I remember feeling stupefied by the talent in those pages. I thought myself a pretty good hand with words for a young fellow, but here was a writer whose gifts took my breath away. Here was an artist of my age who could make words dance and sing, change color mysteriously, perform feats of magic, provoke laughter, send a chill up the back, touch the heart—a full-fledged master of the language before he was old enough to vote.
I had read many splendid writers by that time, but in Truman I discovered a brand-new and unique presence, a storyteller whose distinctive selfhood was embedded in every sentence on the page. I was of course nearly sick with envy, and like all envious artists I turned to the critics for some corroboration of that mean little voice telling me that he wasn’t all that good. Ornamentaland mannered were the words I was looking for, and naturally I found them, for there are always critics driven wild by the manifestation of talent in its pure, energetic exuberance. But basically I knew better, as did the more discerning critics, who must have seen—as I saw, in my secret reckoning—that such gemlike tales as “Miriam” and “The Headless Hawk” had to rank among the best stories written in English. If they were ornamental or mannered, they corresponded to those adjectives in the same way that the finest tales of Henry James or Hawthorne or Edgar Allan Poe do, creating the same troubling resonance.
Needless to say, it is only the most gifted stylists who inspire imitation, and I confess to having imitated Truman in those days of my infancy as a writer. There is a wonderful story of his called “Shut a Final Door,” which details the neurotic anguish of a young man living near Gramercy Park, that still captures the atmosphere of Manhattan during the summer heat wave better than almost any work I know. Not too long ago, I unearthed from among some old papers of mine a short story I wrote during that period, and it seems to be written in a manner almost plagiaristically emulative of Truman’s story, containing nearly everything in “Shut a Final Door,” including the heat wave and the neurotic young man—everything, that is, except Truman’s remarkable sensibility and vision. When his first novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms,appeared and I read it, flabbergasted anew by this wizard’s fresh display of his narrative power, his faultless ear—the luxuriant but supple prose, everywhere under control—my discomfort was monumental. If you will forgive the somewhat topical reference, let me say that, although my admiration was nearly unbounded, the sense I felt of being inadequate would have made the torment of Antonio Salieri appear to be dull and resigned equanimity.
A few years later, my own first novel, Lie Down in Darkness, was published. Among the early reviews I read was one by Lewis Gannett in the Herald Tribune—a mildly favorable appreciation that noted my indebtedness to the following: William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Truman Capote. I was a little crestfallen. I thought I had become my own man, you see, but Truman’s voice was a hard one to banish entirely.
Shortly after this, I met Truman for the first time, during a Roman soirée. I was left with three separate, distinct memories of the evening: he was accompanied by a mistrustful-looking black mynah bird, whom he called Lola and who perched gabbling on his shoulder; he told me that I should definitely marry the young lady I was with, which, as a matter of fact, I did; and he informed me with perfect aplomb that he had been written up in all twelve departments of Timemagazine, with the exception of “Sport” and “Medicine.” We became friends after that. Although we were not close, I always looked forward with pleasure to seeing him, and I think the feeling was reciprocal. I somehow managed to avoid those sharp fangs he sank into some of his fellow writers, and I took it as a professional compliment of a very high order when, on several occasions, something I had written that he liked elicited a warm letter of praise. Generally speaking, writers are somewhat less considerate of each other than that.
A certain amount of Truman’s work might have been a little fey, some of it insubstantial, but the bulk of the journalism he wrote during the following decades was, at its best, of masterly distinction. His innovative achievement, In Cold Blood, not only was a landmark in terms of its concept but possesses both spaciousness and profundity—a rare mingling—and the terrible tale it tells could be told only by a writer who had dared to go in deep and brush flesh with the demons that torment the American soul. Shrewd, fiercely unsentimental yet filled with a mighty compassion, it brought out all that was the best in Truman’s talent: the grave, restrained lyricism, the uncanny insights into character, and that quality which has never been perceived as the animating force in most of his work—a tragic sense of life.
Truman Capote’s best work is now solidly embedded in American literature. Certainly it is possible to mourn the fact that the latter part of his too early ended life seemed relatively unproductive, but even this judgment is presumptuous, since I doubt that few of us here today have ever had to wrestle with the terrors that hastened his end. Meanwhile, let us celebrate the excellence of the work he gave us. Like all of us writers, he had his deficiencies and he made his mistakes, but I believe it to be beyond question that he never wrote a line that was not wrested from a true writer’s anguished quest for the best that he can bring forth. In this he was an artist—I think even at times a great one—from the top down to the toes of his diminutive, somehow heroic self.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Truman Capote / The Duke in his Domain

Marlon Brando

Marlon Brando
by Truman Capote


Most Japanese girls giggle. The little maid on the fourth floor of the Miyako Hotel, in Kyoto, was no exception. Hilarity, and attempts to suppress it, pinked her cheeks (unlike the Chinese, the Japanese complexion more often than not has considerable color), shook her plump peony-and-pansy-kimonoed figure. There seemed to be no particular reason for this merriment; the Japanese giggle operates without apparent motivation. I'd merely asked to be directed toward a certain room. "You come see Marron?" she gasped, showing, like so many of her fellow-countrymen, an array of gold teeth. Then, with the tiny, pigeon-toed skating steps that the wearing of a kimono necessitates, she led me through a labyrinth of corridors, promising, "I knock you Marron." The "l" sound does not exist in Japanese, and by "Marron" the maid meant Marlon—Marlon Brando, the American actor, who was at that time in Kyoto doing location work for the Warner Brothers-William Goetz motion-picture version of James Michener's novel "Sayonara.”
My guide tapped at Brando's door, shrieked "Marron!," and fled away along the corridor, her kimono sleeves fluttering like the wings of a parakeet. The door was opened by another doll-delicate Miyako maid, who at once succumbed to her own fit of quaint hysteria. From an inner room, Brando called, "What is it, honey?" But the girl, her eyes squeezed shut with mirth and her fat little hands jammed into her mouth, like a bawling baby's, was incapable of reply. "Hey, honey, what is it?" Brando again inquired, and appeared in the doorway. "Oh, hi," he said when he saw me. "It's seven, huh?" We'd made a seven-o'clock date for dinner; I was nearly twenty minutes late. "Well, take off your shoes and come on in. I'm just finishing up here. And, hey, honey," he told the maid, "bring us some ice." Then, looking after the girl as she scurried off, he cocked his hands on his hips and, grinning, declared, "They kill me. They really kill me. The kids, too. Don't you think they're wonderful, don't you love them—Japanese kids?"
The Miyako, where about half of the "Sayonara" company was staying, is the most prominent of the so-called Western-style hotels in Kyoto; the majority of its rooms are furnished with sturdy, if commonplace and cumbersome, European chairs and tables, beds and couches. But, for the convenience of Japanese guests who prefer their own mode of décor while desiring the prestige of staying at the Miyako, or of those foreign travellers who yearn after authentic atmosphere yet are disinclined to endure the unheated rigors of a real Japanese inn, the Miyako maintains some suites decorated in the traditional manner, and it was in one of these that Brando had chosen to settle himself. His quarters consisted of two rooms, a bath, and a glassed-in sun porch. Without the overlying and underlying clutter of Brando's personal belongings, the rooms would have been textbook illustrations of the Japanese penchant for an ostentatious barrenness. The floors were covered with tawny tatami matting, with a discreet scattering of raw-silk pillows; a scroll depicting swimming golden carp hung in an alcove, and beneath it, on a stand, sat a vase filled with tall lilies and red leaves, arranged just so. The larger of the two rooms—the inner one—which the occupant was using as a sort of business office where he also dined and slept, contained a long, low lacquer table and a sleeping pallet. In these rooms, the divergent concepts of Japanese and Western decoration—the one seeking to impress by a lack of display, an absence of possession-exhibiting, the other intent on precisely the reverse—could both be observed, for Brando seemed unwilling to make use of the apartment's storage space, concealed behind sliding paper doors. All that he owned seemed to be out in the open. Shirts, ready for the laundry; socks, too; shoes and sweaters and jackets and hats and ties, flung around like the costume of a dismantled scarecrow. And cameras, a typewriter, a tape recorder, an electric heater that performed with stifling competence. Here, there, pieces of partly nibbled fruit; a box of the famous Japanese strawberries, each berry the size of an egg. And books, a deep-thought cascade, among which one saw Colin Wilson's "The Outsider" and various works on Buddhist prayer, Zen meditation, Yogi breathing, and Hindu mysticism, but no fiction, for Brando reads none. He has never, he professes, opened a novel since April 3, 1924, the day he was born, in Omaha, Nebraska. But while he may not care to read fiction, he does desire to write it, and the long lacquer table was loaded with overfilled ashtrays and piled pages of his most recent creative effort, which happens to be a film script entitled "A Burst of Vermilion.”

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

The world bodypainting festival_2014

The world bodypainting festival – in pictures

The 17th annual world bodypainting festival has taken place in Pörtschach, Austria. Thousands of visitors arrived to observe the bodypainting work of artists from 47 different countries on the theme of Pop Art. 
The Guardian, Monday 7 July 2014

The world bodypainting festival has taken place since 1998 and calls itself
The world bodypainting festival has taken place since 1998 and calls itself "the most colourful event in the world".
This year, the festival took place from 29 June to 3 July.
This year, the festival took place from 29 June to 3 July.
A highlight of the festival is
A highlight of the festival is "bodypaint city" where many models painted head-to-toe can be seen walking around.
The festival this year was sponsored by Canon, a large manufacturer of cameras and camera equipment.
The festival this year was sponsored by Canon, a large manufacturer of cameras and camera equipment.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses as the Statue of Liberty at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses as the Statue of Liberty at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
The artists compete in many categories such as sponge, brush, and special effects.
The artists compete in many categories such as sponge, brush, and special effects.
The week-long festival consists of a number of workshops and events.
The week-long festival consists of a number of workshops and events.
A model poses for an award in the fluorescent category.
A model poses for an award in the fluorescent category.
There is a contest held at night for work using the effects of UV paint.
There is a contest held at night for work using the effects of UV paint.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.
A model poses at the world bodypainting festival, 5 July 2014.