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Only show items ready for immediate dispatch At Shibumi we create bespoke clothing from a range of fabrics.

Ticking this box shows the items that are in stock now. Bella Jacket in Imperial Blue. Bella Jacket in Eggshell. Bella Jacket in Venetian Red.

Bella Jacket in Aubergine. Bella Jacket in Mineral. Bella Jacket in Silver. Bella Jacket in Flame. Bella Jacket in Liquorice.

Bella Jacket in French Blue. Bella Jacket in Hot Pink. Bella Jacket in Royal. Bella Jacket in Peone. Bella Jacket in Mercury. Bella Jacket in Hot Magenta.

Bella Jacket in Royal Jacquard. Bella Jacket in Rococo Pink. Bella Jacket in Baroque. It was never quite day and never quite night, the medieval light of northern winter lit the outside, and door and buildings contained different worlds.

I was the last singer in the world of cannibals and they needed my hands for business. The hands where the best when they were soft and white and belonged to someone like a singer or a young woman, or both in my case, so that they could be easily liquefied and molded into belts.

The unwanted hands were thrown down a deep well-spiral-stair case to the bottom of which no one has ever been. Runaway thoughts and memories fell down this well too, hiding from misuse.

They approached me and asked if I could lend my hands for their business, being such a wonderful singer. I agreed, but first, I said, I must take a walk.

And I ran as fast as I could toward the well and flew down the stairs and into the darkness, for I knew that with my hands they will take my soul.

In the soul-less world, merchants did anything to acquire a soul, for it was worth millions and could power a machine for much longer than any other fuel.

So I just let my feet tumble and fell. After an eternity of this falling chase I reached the bottom floor, which opened up into a large storage space, blue-gray cement and metal, fluorescent lights and locked doors.

I ran through the labyrinth of halls. Then I reached the door at the dead end of a hallway that had no handles on the outside, but I opened it, or it opened to me, and I was in, and I knew I made it.

In the afterlife they must segregate the males from the females, just like in a hospital or a private religious school, so it was full of women. The whole place looked like a rehabilitation ward, although everyone seemed physically healthy.

The hallways were lined with lockers. I was handed a key and a lock and I had to find my locker. With the feeling of being late for the final exam I flew up stairwells and down halls, lined floor to ceiling with small lockers next to which single figures and small groups where calmly conversing and moving things in and out of their lockers.

I found my number, quickly opened it and put the bundle of clothes I had in my hand on the bottom shelf. I think it was a cloth hat and a shirt.

I also had a bottle of water. I made it in time and stood looking around and catching my breath. A group of women approached me and asked if I wanted to come along.

I decided to take the clothes and the water bottle along, just in case, and closed my locker. I was staying here, probably forever, and a deep melancholy overtook me — these were all singers!

And I was a painter, I was only a singer up there cause I could sing some, but I was actually a painter and now, surrounded by all these women with their opera statures and singer eyes, I felt a deep longing.

I had my hands now, everyone here had their hands, and carried notebooks and coffee cups in them. We sat down in a big room, what looked like a cafeteria and a lecture hall at once, and I think we were about to be explained something about our condition.

Then I woke up. Wednesday, January 19, letter to emir kusturica written as a facebook message. Dress us, O!

Red like the blood and the setting sun or black like the memories of ancient trees and the mouths of the hanged ones? Monday, January 17, portfolio for MuralArts.

Who are we? Where are we going? Each student painted several sections of the mural and contributed a found object of personal importance for the installation on the bottom.

Immigrants Lost and Found , oil. Wednesday, January 12, suggestion i sent into studio to do an episode on 'On the Road'. Anger at my mother, at the governments, at myself, at art, at anything, really - it's a frantic kind of feeling, like an egg that got dropped out of the nest and went into shock.

It's the kind of anger that egg would feel after the shock is over, and it's supposed to fell like a happy little egg 'because this new place is better, so slap on a smile and run along!

It's the intimacy of the cultural identity that I lacked and that lack brought me the most painful confusion.

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Bella Jacket in Venetian Red. Bella Jacket in Aubergine. Bella Jacket in Mineral. Bella Jacket in Silver. Bella Jacket in Flame.

Bella Jacket in Liquorice. Bella Jacket in French Blue. Bella Jacket in Hot Pink. Bella Jacket in Royal. Bella Jacket in Peone. Bella Jacket in Mercury.

Bella Jacket in Hot Magenta. Bella Jacket in Royal Jacquard. Bella Jacket in Rococo Pink. Bella Jacket in Baroque. Bella Jacket in Star.

Bella Jacket in Moonstone. Bella Jacket in Dusk. Bella Jacket in Burnt Orange. People wore many faces and often changed their expressions dramatically from a wide smile to a brooding to a confused innocence.

Sometimes the change was so quick that between each blink you had a different man stand in front of you in the same body.

The colors where both bright as fresh paint and dull and raggy, all at once. It was never quite day and never quite night, the medieval light of northern winter lit the outside, and door and buildings contained different worlds.

I was the last singer in the world of cannibals and they needed my hands for business. The hands where the best when they were soft and white and belonged to someone like a singer or a young woman, or both in my case, so that they could be easily liquefied and molded into belts.

The unwanted hands were thrown down a deep well-spiral-stair case to the bottom of which no one has ever been.

Runaway thoughts and memories fell down this well too, hiding from misuse. They approached me and asked if I could lend my hands for their business, being such a wonderful singer.

I agreed, but first, I said, I must take a walk. And I ran as fast as I could toward the well and flew down the stairs and into the darkness, for I knew that with my hands they will take my soul.

In the soul-less world, merchants did anything to acquire a soul, for it was worth millions and could power a machine for much longer than any other fuel.

So I just let my feet tumble and fell. After an eternity of this falling chase I reached the bottom floor, which opened up into a large storage space, blue-gray cement and metal, fluorescent lights and locked doors.

I ran through the labyrinth of halls. Then I reached the door at the dead end of a hallway that had no handles on the outside, but I opened it, or it opened to me, and I was in, and I knew I made it.

In the afterlife they must segregate the males from the females, just like in a hospital or a private religious school, so it was full of women.

The whole place looked like a rehabilitation ward, although everyone seemed physically healthy. The hallways were lined with lockers.

I was handed a key and a lock and I had to find my locker. With the feeling of being late for the final exam I flew up stairwells and down halls, lined floor to ceiling with small lockers next to which single figures and small groups where calmly conversing and moving things in and out of their lockers.

I found my number, quickly opened it and put the bundle of clothes I had in my hand on the bottom shelf.

I think it was a cloth hat and a shirt. I also had a bottle of water. I made it in time and stood looking around and catching my breath. A group of women approached me and asked if I wanted to come along.

I decided to take the clothes and the water bottle along, just in case, and closed my locker. I was staying here, probably forever, and a deep melancholy overtook me — these were all singers!

And I was a painter, I was only a singer up there cause I could sing some, but I was actually a painter and now, surrounded by all these women with their opera statures and singer eyes, I felt a deep longing.

I had my hands now, everyone here had their hands, and carried notebooks and coffee cups in them. We sat down in a big room, what looked like a cafeteria and a lecture hall at once, and I think we were about to be explained something about our condition.

Then I woke up. Wednesday, January 19, letter to emir kusturica written as a facebook message. Dress us, O!

Red like the blood and the setting sun or black like the memories of ancient trees and the mouths of the hanged ones?

Monday, January 17, portfolio for MuralArts. Who are we? Where are we going? Each student painted several sections of the mural and contributed a found object of personal importance for the installation on the bottom.

Immigrants Lost and Found , oil. Wednesday, January 12, suggestion i sent into studio to do an episode on 'On the Road'.

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