Think of the monstrous ego of the vampire. He thinks himself so important that he is willing to live forever, even under the dreary conditions imposed by his very nature. Avoiding the sun, sleeping in coffins, feared by all, he nurses his resentments.
It begins, as it should, with the tragic story of Vlad the Impaler, who went off to fight the Crusades and got back to find that his beloved wife, hearing he was dead, had killed herself. Vlad cannot see the justice in his fate. He has marched all the way to the Holy Land on God's business, only to have God play this sort of a trick on him. He embraces Satan and vampirism.
It seems it does not occur to him that after the first two or three centuries he might not seem all that attractive to her. But he does look handsome and truly attractive in millions of vampire pictures that celebrate his righteous darkness and unholy spree of vengeance.
Modern photographic techniques may easily dispel the silence of the nights, through which he has waited fearfully for centuries.
These pictures represent orgies of visual decadence, in which what people do is not nearly as degraded as how they look while they do it. The sets run riot—Gothic extravaganza intercut with the Victorian London of gaslights and fogbound streets, rogues in top hats and alluring girls in bustiers. Dracula cheerfully changes form—from an ancient wreck to a presentable young man to a cat and a bat and a wolf. And women find themselves falling under the terrible spell of the vampire's need. They pant with eagerness and are traditionally flattered when a man says he has been waiting all of his life for them, hence numerous rendezvous in bedrooms and graveyards and sumptuous visual spectacular.
Photographers and their models exercise in feverish excess. They are immortal, powerful and rich; they are vicious, sexual, and sinuous. Vampires chortle as if they've gotten away with something. Vampirism looks like anything but an endless sadness. A vampire? I have good news and bad news. The good news is that you can indulge your lusts night after night, but the bad news is that if you stop, you die. If you stop wandering the world feeding on the blood of your victims.
Photographers combine elegance and fantastic images into a vampire world of eerie beauty. The “action”, of course, normally takes place at night, along gloomy back streets and in decadent boudoirs, the catacombs of Paris and private clubs. Subtle makeup and shades convey the notion of great age inside apparent youth. They are so popular, these pictures, for anyone would love to turn into a vampire for just a day, or, even better, night. Slim, (barely) covered in patent leather, with dark eyes and polished red nails, vamps travel through nights and pages of magazines in search of fresh blood and malicious pleasures. But is this life in darkness worth it? It the photographer’s flash the same as the light of the sun?
It begins, as it should, with the tragic story of Vlad the Impaler, who went off to fight the Crusades and got back to find that his beloved wife, hearing he was dead, had killed herself. Vlad cannot see the justice in his fate. He has marched all the way to the Holy Land on God's business, only to have God play this sort of a trick on him. He embraces Satan and vampirism.
It seems it does not occur to him that after the first two or three centuries he might not seem all that attractive to her. But he does look handsome and truly attractive in millions of vampire pictures that celebrate his righteous darkness and unholy spree of vengeance.
Modern photographic techniques may easily dispel the silence of the nights, through which he has waited fearfully for centuries.
These pictures represent orgies of visual decadence, in which what people do is not nearly as degraded as how they look while they do it. The sets run riot—Gothic extravaganza intercut with the Victorian London of gaslights and fogbound streets, rogues in top hats and alluring girls in bustiers. Dracula cheerfully changes form—from an ancient wreck to a presentable young man to a cat and a bat and a wolf. And women find themselves falling under the terrible spell of the vampire's need. They pant with eagerness and are traditionally flattered when a man says he has been waiting all of his life for them, hence numerous rendezvous in bedrooms and graveyards and sumptuous visual spectacular.
Photographers and their models exercise in feverish excess. They are immortal, powerful and rich; they are vicious, sexual, and sinuous. Vampires chortle as if they've gotten away with something. Vampirism looks like anything but an endless sadness. A vampire? I have good news and bad news. The good news is that you can indulge your lusts night after night, but the bad news is that if you stop, you die. If you stop wandering the world feeding on the blood of your victims.
Photographers combine elegance and fantastic images into a vampire world of eerie beauty. The “action”, of course, normally takes place at night, along gloomy back streets and in decadent boudoirs, the catacombs of Paris and private clubs. Subtle makeup and shades convey the notion of great age inside apparent youth. They are so popular, these pictures, for anyone would love to turn into a vampire for just a day, or, even better, night. Slim, (barely) covered in patent leather, with dark eyes and polished red nails, vamps travel through nights and pages of magazines in search of fresh blood and malicious pleasures. But is this life in darkness worth it? It the photographer’s flash the same as the light of the sun?
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