PART I   Art & Fashion Photo-Fiction          

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Monroe Gang is a dark diamond of Literature,Photography and Fashion..a diamond so unique,

so passionate crafted by all the creators who i had the honour to contribute to this Conceptual Brand project.

The Monroe Gang is an example par excellence of what Aris Moskov loves to do,

of what we can create in Art & Fashion Industry, of what really High Art Production means for me...

I can name my services to Brands,Photographers, Writers and Models as a Soul Crafting, an Aesthetic Preach. 

And this Preach is for all and for no one, it depends on the understanding of me from you,

it is a Preach for the luxury few, the club, the elite , the minority who really love and work for the ART n' BEAUTY..

 

I will give my love again here to Chara Kokkiou, the writer, the fantastic friend, the excellent dark mind who elevated my Concept with this amazing fiction drama story.

I will hug with respect and love Maria Chatziathanasiadis, who created the fantastic images that host the words, the ideas, the figures of this gang..Her Photography is unparalleled!

Our Fashion designers too, Eleanna Katsira & Irini Louisa Andrikopoulou, who contribute the dresses and accessories of the Monroe Gang..

And of course to our stylist, mua artist,hair artist, assistant photographers,videographer..without them all the above words would never be real!

Last but not least my respect, love and admiration to our models..their cooperation and their disciplined performance allowed us to embodied on their persons the roles and images of our ART!

Enjoy the PART I and love the ART n' FASHION as one thing, as the unity of the BEAUTY!

Aris Moskov

@chatziathanasiadis @revolutionisingaesthetics @lefkon_designerclothes @eleanna_katsira 

@kajsalindstedt @ubeslutsom @zhenya_vs @emmiethall @natasha_kout @marinosmilionis

 

 

 THE MONROE GANG or the Vindictive Beauty

[Narrator]

Look. There is no doubt that Marilyn is dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come out of the story I am about to relate. (Yeah, big discovery, it's stolen).

 

Okay, what about that? “You, corpse, have come back to look at the moon, making the night terrifying and stirring us humans with supernatural fears? Why? What do you want from us? What should we do?” (Yep, stolen again)! Keep it though. And listen: here’s a story about a dumb blonde, born, devoured and died at age 36.

 

[Narrator singing]

Her name was Norma / she was a pinup / with yellow ringlets in her hair and a Jean Louis dress up there...

 

No, it’s not a story about a blonde. It’s a story about THE blonde. The God Damn Platinum Blonde. A story of vengeance that raises the Ghost of an Idea. But there’s also humor in it. May it haunt every reader and no one wish to lay it... (Okay, I love Dickens – and it’s Christmas). The story is a Christmas Carol sung by Maxi Wild. The title reads: GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES. It’s 1963, February 5, exactly six months after Marilyn’s death. Time is irrelevant.

 

 

1. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ACT I Who was Marilyn?

 

[Four girls, Marie, Anne, Irina and Grace, are sitting at the corners of a dark room – in the middle there are a table and some chairs, there is a lot of empty space – they read loudly, one line each. Best of Marilyn’s quotes and handmade poetry for the salvation of the soul: initiation to Marilyn’s inner and outer shattered world. Echoing]

 

MARILYN’S LIKE A VEIL I WEAR OVER NORMA JEAN.

FEAR IS STUPID. SO ARE REGRETS.

PERFECTION. BEAUTY.

GIRL. SMALL. WORLD. BIG.

SMALL. BIG. HUGE.

DEVOURING DARKNESS AND POLITICS AND LOVE.

VOID. NOTHINGNESS.

SIN. LOVERS. SECRETS. SINNERS. DEVILS.

IMPERFECTION. SUBJECTION. HUMILIATION. ALONEMENT.

I’M

            VERY

                        DEFINITELY

                                                            A

                                                                        WOMAN.

 

Time touches us with invisible hands,

the masks of outer world fall

under this invisible touch we never hear or see;

the boxes are emptied, the objects lose their content,

what’s left is outer lines strictly drawn with wisdom.

Wisdom is the earth under perception.

 

DRUGS. BETRAYAL. VICTIM.

LIGHT.                                                           LIGHTS.                                             MORE LIGHTS.

 

There was my name up in lights. I said, “God, somebody’s made a mistake.” But there it was, in lights. And I sat there and said, “Remember, you’re not a star.” Yet there it was up in lights. [IMITATING MARILYN’S VOICE]

 

Bigger in death than in life? That’s a lie.

PAIN. REJECTION. DESTRUCTION.

ALONE. I AM ALONE. I AM ALWAYS ALONE NO MATTER WHAT.

 

Words I saw with red ink nailed in minds,

words I interpreted when swimming in

the red pool of lies,

Mary Magdalene of Love …

 

[sigh...] Happy birthday, Mr. President! [sigh...]

DEATH. I’M DYING EVERY NIGHT.

I MAKE MISTAKES. I’M OUT OF CONTROL.

PUBLIC.

DREAM.

FAME.

MONEY. IMAGE. LIES.

PRIVATE.

TIRED. HURT. BEWILDERED.

I JUST WANT TO BE WONDERFUL.

I’LL BE BACK. I WILL LIVE AGAIN.

I’VE NEVER REALLY DIED. UNFINISHED STORY. RIGHT, CORONER?

 

 The time I first met major intellects,

I was walking and heard their gods;

how they fought and drank,

how they struck humanity with their sharp swords

of heart and knowledge.

I met the essence.

 

FBI – CIA

Pills.

Depression.

Suicide.

Threats.

Mafia.

The Big Ks.

The cost of knowledge. Of vanity. Upright. Beauty.

Beneath the makeup.

Behind the smile.

Behind the scenes.

I do sin. But search for the devils.

Faint shadows wrap my body around, purple or blue;

 one part of mine is covered by oblivion, while the other emits

the brine of eternity.

What do you know and how do you proceed …

 

WHO SAID NIGHTS WERE FOR SLEEP?

[Fading voice] Blondes, who adore the Goddess, like hidden Ghosts, search, hear, see,

enchant and execute.

 

[Flashback – Marilyn’s last day. Narrator]

     When Marilyn woke up, it was so dark, she could barely discern the light coming through her window. She was trying to pierce the darkness with her tired eyes, when the church clock struck 7.00 in the morning. She had slept badly. She looked at the mirror. She was pale, thin, so tired and wrinkled, exhausted, empty, with half-ruined hair, half-ruined mind, half-ruined career. She was promiscuous and she knew it. What was she doing with her life, why was she wasting it? She was turning into her mother, a mad woman; no, no! She doesn’t want to be like her and she won’t give up, she’s waiting for new furniture from Mexico; a nice change – to start with. Then, maybe, join the Fords for dinner.

The post came leaving a toy. It was stuffed with letters. Then, the phone rang repeatedly. In a few hours she would be dead.

     Lying naked on her bed, face down, legs perfectly straight, phone in one hand, empty bottles of sleep pills littered around. Is this another pose? She... she’s d e a d? She’s really... d e a d?

 

[Loud music/noise] BREAKING NEWS: Marilyn Monroe found dead. Hunt answer!

 

ACT II Who killed Marilyn?

 

[Change of scene – The gang enters the room one after the other: one, two, three, four. They are all blondes, except from one. They are all holding guns. Song playing at the background: Oceanvs Orientalis feat Idil Mese - The Cube. The year is 1963. We are in Marylin’s house, at her bedside.]

 

[Just a reminder for the non-initiated. Past: August 5 1962. Six men murdered Marilyn that day. It was a perfectly organized crime. Six murders into one, the same day, within two, three hours, tops. Present: the three blondes altogether shouting.]

It was not a suicide!!! She was murdered! Marilyn was murdered!!!

 

Marie: When shall we meet again?

Anne: When the battle is lost and won.

Marie: That will be before the dawn.

Irina: Anon.

Anne: Where the place?

Irina: Upon the terrace.

Marie: There to meet with pretty Grace.

 

[Grace, the dark-haired girl, walks in and stands in the middle of the room. ALTOGETHER TAKING THE OATH OF VENGEANCE]:

Fight The Greater Evil

 

                                                                                      No Mercy For The Wicked

 

                   By Any Means Necessary

 

                                                                                                Restitution

 

[Narrator]

     This is the story of what Men’s nature can provoke and what Women’s commitment can achieve. If the machinery of the Law could be based on to unravel every case of suspicion and to deliver justice to every single person harmed in any possible way the events which fill these pages would be redundant and everyone would call their share in a real Court of Justice. But the Law – and justice by law – is sometimes inflexible, false and unfair. “The pre-engaged servant of the long purse”, yes. Oh, Collins, my hero! The permanent minion of profit. So, justice is left to female hands and the story is left to be presented for the first time, here, by a female pen. Let the readers be the judges. Let the female voice be heard first. And if you find them guilty, the story will be considered inconsequential and it will be forever forgotten. But if you find them not guilty, YOU will have to take this pen and REWRITE HISTORY. And please, SEAL IT this time!

 

ACT III Marilyn’s Ghost

 

[The same afternoon: The four girls in the room had an unexpected visit. Right, let’s steal some more Dickens for the joy of the discussion ... To their great astonishment the clock went on from six to seven, from seven to eight and gradually to twelve. Twelve! It was suddenly midnight and they were running late! But, how is this even possible? The clock was wrong. They tried to fix it, but with no luck. It struck twelve and stopped again. They thought, and thought, and thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing of it. The more they thought, the more perplexed they were; and the more they endeavored not to think, the more they thought. “Who is this? Are we dreaming?”]

 

[They describe the unearthly visitor vividly. They are surprised.]

There was a presence of which we gradually became aware looming out of the fog, over our heads, a strange figure. It was a woman, a mysteriously alluring woman, whose look filled us with awe. Her burning gaze was ineffably penetrating, unlike that of anyone we have ever met. She was fresh and glowing, but it was impossible to estimate her age. See looked young, but her look was uncommonly weighty. Her hair, which hung about her neck, was curly and blond.

It was impossible to estimate her height, for she seemed at first to be of ordinary measure, but then, without seeming to change or transform, she appeared to be extraordinarily tall, so that her head could touch the sky. Her dress was a miracle of fine, white cloth. The purest white. But it had darkened as if through neglect or dismay and was dirty, dingy and worn. “You are like the Sirens, and your flatteries and deceits will lead only to their destruction. Be gone!”

 

 - Marilyn? Is it … really … you?

- [There was a bright, clear jet of light springing from above her head. She looked at them steadily and said with calm, almost sweet voice]:

Jack and Robby of course. Leave them to close the scene. You know, for the final impression. They were the most impressive anyways. Don’t kill Robby outright. Let him be tortured for a while. He used me; the most beautiful man, and the most common one, ahem – took me ages to realize it. It was already late when I did. Alphonse and Gabriel before them. I always thought they had never decided what they really wanted to be: protectors or enemies? Monsters, for sure, from top to bottom. They were screwing the brothers over as I was literally screwing them, okay? Let’s leave it that way. But, please, I beg you, start with my dear friends: Carl and my dearest Paul. Don’t you dare let the worst types of human species rest in peace. The dastards. Pure Bastards. All of them are shadows of people; they are things, they have to die and they will! Promise me they will, don’t let them haunt me any more. I was young, I was beautiful, I was … I wanted to live, you know? You can’t give me my life back, but, please, give me my soul and my peace.

[Then, she writes two words on the wall with the tip of her finger: FUREUR – MYSTERE.] “You, rēs, you, liars, all of you!!!”, she says and laughs out so loud, she nearly cries. Then, she suddenly leaves, just as strangely as she had appeared.

The following lines from Char’s “Fureur et Mystère” are barely heard; low music, lights slowly turned off. In perfect french pronunciation, each verse must be heard by a different male voice:

 

Beauté, ma toute-droite, par les routes d’ étoiles,

                                            A l’ étape des lampes et du courage clos,

                                            Dans l’ absurde chagrin de vivre sans comprendre

                                            Ecroule-moi et sois ma Femme de décembre.]