Here come the animals

We have a new album out! It’s called ‘Des Animaux Pires Que Moi’, featuring music by Louis Fontaine, and vocals by Yzoula, formerly in the French band La Femme. (An English translation could be ‘Creatures Crueler Than Me.’) 

After the positive experience we had working on our song ‘Tormento’, composer and multi-instrumentalist Louis Fontaine asked if I would like to brainstorm and write the lyrics for his next album with the singer Yzoula. We met up in his studio in Paris. Pointing to an old film poster above one of his 1970s synthesizers, he said he wanted to make an album about a vampire or a young witch. He played some of the tracks he had composed and I took some notes in my sketchbook. 

Excited about the project, I walked to my local library and checked out a stack of books about witchcraft and the history of the occult in Paris. Fontaine sent me the music, along with more specifics: one song should have the mood of chanson française, another should be a speech, another a kind of spell, another a spoken story, and the last song should be a bit melancholy.  I walked the rainy streets of Paris, crossing the Seine, singing poems to myself, and remembering the times I could have used some magic powers. 

From there, I created the character of the album's protagonist: a kind of sorceress with my personality and experiences combined with elements of the singer. Then I wrote the songs in French, layering my stories and moments with my research, along with inspiration of witchy movies and 1970s pulp books, (which I collect) plus a sprinkle of imagination… and a dash of dark humor. I also came up with the titles of the instrumental songs, except for the second song on the record. Fontaine liked the lyrics, recorded Yzoula’s dreamy vocals, brought in a harpist and a violinist, and spent many hours mastering and perfecting the songs. 

‘Des Animaux…’ tells a story about supernatural powers, taking risks, playing with seduction and revenge, and prowling around Paris. Broc Recordz is releasing ‘Des Animaux Pires Que Moi’ on April 18th, 2025 on vinyl. You can listen to the first single here or watch the video here. If you don’t have a record player, you can stream the album to get in the midnight mood.

Use Your Illusions: My First Exhibition in Madrid

This year has been hell at times and yet there came a point where I woke up and started acting with urgency. Between the global pandemic, two members of my family in life-or-death situations (unrelated to Covid), and the intense loneliness of spending so much time alone, I thought 2020 might break me. But at the end of summer, suddenly I took action. I wanted something good to happen! I created an artist book and distributed it to numerous bookstores and art museums, where it was received well. I started drawing and painting like my life depended on it. I was invited to participate in two important exhibitions (details are in the previous two posts.) And in December 2020, I had my first dual exhibition in Madrid. 

'Use Your Illusions' examined the purpose of illusions and memories, nostalgia and desire, questioning whether these trips into imagination are positive or detrimental to one's present reality. The exhibition featured both my figurative paintings and the surreal analog collages of the Spanish artist Ella Jazz. We both lived in California at the same time, before meeting in Madrid, and this experience greatly influenced our artwork and worldview.

'Use Your Illusions,' Exhibition View, 2020

'Walking Up To Your Street', Margo Fortuny

Acrylic on canvas,  26 x 18 cm

'The Fighter', Margo Fortuny, 2020

Acrylic on canvas, 80 x 60 cm

Beto looking at 'Love Me When I'm Gone' by M. Fortuny. 

Photo: Larry Balboa

'The Trip', Margo Fortuny, 2020

Acrylic on canvas, 50 x 65 cm

'The Lover', Margo Fortuny, 2020

Acrylic on canvas, 70 x140 cm

'Use Your Illusions' Madrid 2020. Photo: Larry Balboa

Here I am outside 'Use Your Illusions', at Pavilion. 

December 2020. Photo: Diego & The Blue Sea

For more images of my artwork check out my Instagram @margofortuny .

 THE PAST IN THE GRASS

He disentangled his body from hers. Above the low bed, the rotating blades of the ceiling fan dragged the air in circles. He held her hand to stop her nuzzling, to keep her connected but at an arm’s length. The empty feeling seeped in. Her breathing slowed and he slipped out.

The morning bleated around him in a song of herds and dust and chains of jasmine.  He walked to his bike and took off for Bagan. White cows ambled by mares on the side of the road. Thin women walked in the opposite direction, balancing massive roped-up branches on their heads. The smell of earth inhabited his nostrils, the sun eased over his face, the wind stroked his hair and he forgot about her. Freed from thought he relaxed into sensation. The monsoon had intensified the landscape: trees bloomed everywhere, half-submerged in pools of water where leaves and sky met in  curdled reflections. In the stark sunlight everything looked too vivid to be real. He felt he was riding through a photograph.

Glancing around, he parked in the high grass about a mile away from the temple. He carried his shoes. There was no one. The temple rose before him. Hall waited there.  

Barefoot, he entered the cool shadows, climbed the steep steps and paused beneath an arch, “I need to give you something.” Standing close enough to see the sweat on Hall’s brow, he looked into his eyes, searching for a reason to stop. He reached out and struck the man. Hall lost consciousness. He gripped Hall’s neck, pressing on the stun spot, before rolling the limp body over the edge to fall from the temple into the grass.

Shoes in hand, he walked back to the motorcycle, remembering the times he had let himself be crushed. The prostration was over.   

-a short story by Margo Fortuny, with photographs taken in Burma.

The Kneeling

Photograph by Rasha Kahil

http://rashakahilblog.blogspot.com

The piano was playing. She bowed to her leg, almost touching the barre. An arch, a gesture. The muscles kept repeating a rhythmic prayer. Pointed toes orbited over the floorboards. An hour passed. The piano stopped. She passed through rooms, picking up her bag, changing into tennis shoes, brushing loose strands off her damp forehead.

Outside the sky was a canvas. Clouds dissolved into swathes of bleeding violets. Her bicycle was waiting, locked up chastely. She hopped on the red frame and pedaled home, enjoying the wind singing around her face. The road ahead dimmed during the long ride and the hair stood up on her arms. The trees hid in the dark waiting for the moon. Turning left, she was home.

The house was quiet. A mound of grey fur napped in the corner of the kitchen. She reached for an apple and a knife. The apple was peeled and sliced at the table, devoured and finished.

Tomorrow’s our last morning, she thought in the shower, adjusting the faucets. She traced a picture of his face in the steamed glass. One night, they had sat in the green tub with the shower running, pretending it was raining, kissing between mouthfuls of cava. When he complained about the drink she poured the rest over his head. He tried to fold her like paper but there wasn’t room so she leaned back and leapt out and ran laughing to the next room, leaving a trail of wet footprints…

Washed, rinsed, dried, wrapped in a big coarse towel, she retreated to bed. Alarm set, she curled up in sheets like peach skin.

It was still dark when she slipped on the white cotton dress, clean tights, a holey blue sweater (the one she never washed) and boots. Her reflection was pleasing. She approached her bicycle in habitual steps. The pedaling woke her up.

This day had happened so many times. They liked to meet early. At first it was under the pretence of having company whilst running. Then they ended up walking in the bluish light, exploring the woods, and eventually pressing each other against the bark under the trellis of branches. Her mind roamed down familiar paths.

Hopping off the bike, she led it to the clearing where they met. The air smelled of wet dirt. Faint from excitement and a hunger that hummed in her belly she advanced. He was there. He looked fitting among the trees, shadowy in dawn, a Pan with dark locks brushing against explicit cheekbones. His lips were crimson and his eyes shone as if he had been enjoying wine. Smiling, speaking, their hands melded together.

He took a kiss and they began to walk over crisp leaves. The day was emerging. This was where she wanted to be and yet she couldn’t savor it. Already she felt his absence weighing on her, carving up their embraces. Anticipating the loss, she was distant. A small nausea and a swallow in her throat distracted from his words and warm hands. Some fingers were adorned with cuts: gifts from his guitar strings. His music had inspired first her admiration and then resentment.

They paused, looked at each other, cheeks flushed, lips biting. Faces close like blades of grass; they sunk down to become entangled one more time. Cottony arms surrounded her, pulling her near. His heart was beating against her chest. Forgetting the futility of nostalgia, she tried to memorize the kisses. He smelled like clean laundry and maybe he had frosted flakes for breakfast. These details were silently collected. They rolled over and she wandered into his eyes. Touches silenced the thoughts.

Soundless they lay there, waiting for the sun to warm them. Giving up, the couple stood, adjusted themselves and returned to the clearing. Shivering a little, there was not much to say now. They wheeled their bicycles to the road. She held him for some time, drowning in the minutes, breathing him. She drew away, said goodbye. One last fever on the lips. Dazed by the parting, she climbed over the metal and rode away. A song played in her head.

-Margo Fortuny

Photograph by Ryan McGinley

http://ryanmcginley.com/moonmilk

FALLING OUT OF TREES

Broken Fall (Organic) © Bas Jan Ader. 1971/94 All rights reserved.

You're Looking Very Concave This Evening

Jarvis Cocker in Q Magazine, '95

In honour of the thrilling news that Pulp is reforming I’ve scoured the earth for a few classic pictures and videos of my favourite frontman, Jarvis Cocker. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Jarvis twice. Someday I hope to hold a conversation with him that lasts more than 73 seconds.

Morrissey called. He wants to know what kind of conditioner you use.

The face of a legend… The chest of E.T.

Is there room for one more?

Countdown

Hit Single Pulp: Disco 2000

Pulp- Disco 2000

simsy | Myspace Music Videos

Acrylic Afternoons (Different from album version)

Love Is Blind (Fan video)

Something Changed

Here’s a little BBC Documentary on Pulp (1995.) http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=6611246860193371775#

And here’s my favourite Pulp website: http://www.acrylicafternoons.com/band.html

I can't.

In high school I made a mixtape of all the most depressing songs I could think of. I called it I CAN’T… The tape dissapeared. A few years later I made another one. It’s around here somewhere. I’m trying to remember what songs are on it- I haven’t listened to it in a while. The concept was a collection of songs to really emphasize my subterranean feeling until I couldn’t feel any worse and I got sick of hearing sad melodies. The mix included Sigur Ros, Squarepusher’s cover of Love Will Tear Us Apart, the Cedar Room by Doves, Radiohead’s High and Dry, a few others and this song from this one time I fell in love. It was the night before I was moving to Italy and he was going back to California and we knew we wouldn’t see each other for at least a year and he wanted to tattoo a drawing I did on his arm but instead we lay in bed, under a duvet, even though it was August in New York City, and listened to Boards of Canada…

Here are some things I do when I can’t find that mixtape:

+Spread (non-toxic) white school glue on my hands and peel it off after it’s dried. (Not recommended if you’re extremely hairy.)

+Take a walk. Cry.

+Take a hot bath.

+Forget myself with a movie. (example: Wet Hot American Summer.)

+Climb a tree.

+Draw on my arms.

+Write. Paint.

+Hang out with someone funny.

+Wait.

Meander Milk

I study him. He wears no shirt, just cut-off faded jeans, a white flower behind his ear. A hand-rolled cigarette resides in one hand. His bony frame leans forward to look at a calico cat hopping like a rabbit across a garden. The air is silent and moist. Mopeds sputter periodically. The sky darkens, the ocean joins it, and the moon finds a place in the folds of blue. With salted hair and feverish eyes and burnt shoulders and moles polka-dotting his back he is the most astounding creature I have ever seen. I won’t let him know, he wouldn’t believe me anyway. So I look away and ask him what we should do about dinner.

After dinner we share a bottle of the second-cheapest whiskey we can find. Bantering, hopeful, we sit on the whitewashed stairs and observe people trotting by. Goat roasts somewhere and cigarettes are smoked. The beach extends itself into my mind. We hasten.

      The sun rises revealing a beach full of people intertwined. Kicked off sandals sleep next to green beer bottles in the sand. The waves seem hesitant in their approach. Everyone is silenced by immense concentration. We look at each other, aware of our ongoing solitudes. He shrugs. We walk to a bus stop. Kissless times last longer.