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Ancient Egyptian New Year Celebrations
🎆🎇🌠Happy New Year 🎉
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New Guinea War shield painted with the man that never dies "the Phantom"
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Belgrade Theatre fountain. Coventry, November 2014.
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Helen Frankenthaler, Untitled, 1978
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Brigitte Bardot, Paris, 1954 | Georges Dambier
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Joan Mitchell.
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Roberta Meldini, elogio alla vita
Roberta Meldini, elogio alla vita
Le diverse anime dell’artista, come sottolinea la curatrice della mostra Brigida Mascitti, sono presenti attraverso il comun denominatore dell’“elogio alla vita”, in qualsiasi forma di espressione – umana, animale e naturale dunque – e mediante la peculiare cifra stilistica della Meldini, nella sua costante ricerca di un segno originale e distinto, ma al contempo memore della produzione…
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Sean Connery first met Brigitte Bardot on a sun-scorched beach in Spain in 1968 and the crew swore the air changed, two screen legends sizing each other up like they were about to rewrite the laws of charisma.
They were filming Shalako, a Western no one expected to become historic for anything other than the pairing of two of the most magnetic faces in cinema. Connery had just stepped off the global rocket of James Bond. Bardot was the most photographed woman alive. Their reputations walked onto set ten minutes before they did.
But what happened between them wasn’t flirtation.
It was recognition.
On the second day of shooting, Bardot arrived early for a difficult riding scene. Her horse had been skittish all morning, and after three failed takes the wranglers muttered that maybe she should use a double. Bardot, jaw set, climbed back on the saddle with a glare sharp as a blade.
Connery watched from a distance. He knew stubbornness; he understood pride.
After the fourth take buckled again, he walked over, not as Bond, not as a co-star, but as someone who had built his life on refusing to be underestimated.
He touched the reins gently, steadied the horse, and said in his low Scottish rumble:
“He doesn’t doubt you. You doubt yourself. Let him feel you breathe.”
Bardot stared at him — and for the first time all morning, she laughed.
A surprised, unguarded, real laugh.
Then she whispered, “You sound like my father.”
The next take was perfect.
What the paparazzi never knew — what the tabloids never printed — was that their friendship was built not on romance, but on something far more rare in Hollywood: mutual respect between two people who lived under the weight of global fantasy.
They talked between scenes about fame, about privacy, about the exhausting pressure of carrying an image the world refuses to let go of. Connery once told her:
“They see the roles.
They never see the cost.”
Bardot nodded and replied,
“That’s why we survive — we keep something for ourselves.”
For the rest of the shoot, the crew said you could always tell when Connery and Bardot were nearby. Not by noise — but by presence. Two stars who didn’t compete, didn’t overshadow, didn’t flirt for the cameras.
They understood each other.
Years later, when Bardot was asked who her favorite co-star was, she didn’t hesitate.
“Sean,” she said. “Because he treated me like a person, not a symbol.”
And that was the secret — two icons, both mythologized, finally meeting someone who saw past the myth.
