Editor’s Letter – Magnifico
Jazzelle Zanaughtti on The Fashionable Lampoon 11 cover – Ph. Nick knight
Text Carlo Mazzoni
A cover by Nick Knight, a screenplay by Fitzgerald. Puppets by Billie Achilleos, Jeff Koons and Jack London. Critique by Émile Zola, an interior by Mongiardino, the Italian marble. This is magnificent, our new look — the new Lampoon.
Broken images exploded softly in his head, and he was moving out of himself in a silent swoop. Magnificent and Malaparte. Man is magnificent in his error, in his getting up again — nobody has ever liked the man sitting on his throne or pedestal, raised up off the floor, lost in his clouds. We are here, in our sins of the flesh and rage, in a Naples that will never go back to being as beautiful as it was, in an Italy that is scentrehe center of the world. Italians are the only ones who cannot see this. We didn’t know our own strength, Whitney Houston sang in the midst of her downfall, long before the end. Man is magnificent in sorrow and humiliation. The lucky man, the man sitting on the throne of his pride, power and happiness, the man wearing his winner’s trappings and insolence, is a repugnant sight—not a magnificent one.
The word ‘Olio’, in Italian, is magnificent. Maniacal eyes—wrote Lampedusa—are magnificent eyes. A shifting population, as changeful as the ocean which lay at its feet, stretched towards the horizon, sickly green and heaving with endless disquiet. Michelangelo, the Medici Pope, Maria Luigia was the last queen. Palazzo Pitti in Florence bounces off the decadence of Lisbon, the California of Dior, the Milan Cathedral for Prada. The clash between his strength and her imagination held more charm than speeches by countless generations of lovers.
Joseph Conrad, William Burroughs, Jonathan Coe. Literature and fashion. You are magnificent when you come down to earth, in the shards and mud — collapse like a ruin, fall like a cup. Happiness is for the simple, it does not interest the gods — or who ends up seeming like one . Those who believe they are creating, impressing and deciding must in exchange be ready to die. The gods are never afraid to die, because they know that their life is less important than their deeds and words, than what they have been.
Limits only exist in the soul of those with no dreams. You know this. There is a place, on this earth, a place that has a sense, the center of every pride, a place that shines and reflects the light of pale stars. This place is the end. All roads, all lives reach an end. Only the sky — only the sky — the sky is the only form of infinite allowed to man. We men are shafts of light that lose themselves in this sky — shafts that to the very end hope in the only thing they know how to do — like me, here and now — speak of love.