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Heavy, Tom Clark

Wednesday, 20th of August with 3,717 notes


The Heavy Metal of Marilyn Minter (on Artsy)

In visceral and gaudy paintings, photographs, and video works, Marilyn Minter examines the relationship between the body, cultural anxieties about sexuality and desire, and fashion imagery. Minter is best known for glossy, hyperrealistic paintings in enamel on metal that depict closeups of makeup-laden lips, eyes, and feet—a liquid-dripping gold-toothed smile or a pair of glistening high heels splashing in metallic fluid. Strut (2004–5) portrays a muddied foot in a gem-encrusted high heel. Minter also photographs body parts seen through panes of wet glass, captured from characteristically dynamic and provocative angles that suggest the seductive, disturbing nature of glamour.

Wednesday, 20th of August with 2,107 notes
❝ Here I came to the very edge
where nothing at all needs saying,
everything is absorbed through weather and the sea,
and the moon swam back,
its rays all silvered,
and time and again the darkness would be broken
by the crash of a wave,
and every day on the balcony of the sea,
wings open, fire is born,
and everything is blue again like morning. ❞
- Pablo Neruda, “It is Born”, in On the Blue Shore of Silence: Poems of the Sea”, translated by Alastair Reid (via hiddenshores)
Wednesday, 20th of August with 276 notes
Me and the Devil
Soap&Skin - Sugarbread


Early this morning
When you knocked on my door
And I said hello Satan
I believe it’s time to go

Wednesday, 20th of August with 539 notes
❝ I know of witches who whistle at different pitches, calling things that don’t have names. ❞
- Helen Oyeyemi
Tuesday, 19th of August with 230 notes


Complex works of the Venezuelan artist Rafael Araujo


Tuesday, 19th of August with 16,123 notes
❝ The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows. During the blue nights you think the end of day will never come. As the blue nights draw to a close (and they will, and they do) you experience an actual chill, an apprehension of illness, at the moment you first notice: the blue light is going, the days are already shortening, the summer is gone. ❞
- Joan Didion, Blue Nights  (via mother-iron)
Tuesday, 19th of August with 4,392 notes
Tuesday, 19th of August with 1,512 notes
❝ As Arnold points out, there is an otherwise inexplicable shift in direction in the Piccadilly line passing east out of South Kensington. “In fact,” she writes, “the tunnel curves between Knightsbridge and South Kensington stations because it was impossible to drill through the mass of skeletal remains buried in Hyde Park.” I will admit that I think she means “between Knightsbridge and Hyde Park Corner”—although there is apparently a “small plague pit dating from around 1664” beneath Knightsbridge Green—but I will defer to Arnold’s research.

But to put that another way, the ground was so solidly packed with the interlocked skeletons of 17th-century victims of the Great Plague that the Tube’s 19th-century excavation teams couldn’t even hack their way through them all. The Tube thus had to swerve to the side along a subterranean detour in order to avoid this huge congested knot of skulls, ribs, legs, and arms tangled in the soil—an artificial geology made of people, caught in the throat of greater London. ❞

London and Its Dead

(via weunderstandthelights)

Tuesday, 19th of August with 3,508 notes


"Don’t make me ask you again" 

Monday, 18th of August with 326 notes

Jeannine Hall Gailey, “Introduction to the Body in Fairy Tales”

Monday, 18th of August with 1,474 notes


"Deadwood" Nicholas Scarpinato. Glass/mixed media. Deadwood SD. June. 2013

Mix Media. Photo.

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Sunday, 17th of August with 724 notes
❝ That’s the best thing about language: every time you use a word you are summoning so many other things—all the times that word has ever been used. I know this sounds a little psychedelic, but maybe I have an ancestor one hundred years ago who used this word that I choose to write now. What does it mean that everything that we are writing is recycled? Words are full of ghosts. Poetry is full of ghosts. ❞
- Morgan Parker (via blackcontemporaryart)
Sunday, 17th of August with 911 notes

Our memories are like a city: we tear some structures down, and we use rubble of the old to raise up new ones. Some memories are bright glass, blindingly beautiful when they catch the sun, but then there are the darker days, when they reflect only the crumbling walls of their derelict neighbours. Some memories are buried under years of patient construction; their echoing halls may never again be seen or walked down, but still they are the foundations for everything that stands above them.

"Glas told me once that that’s what people are, mostly: memories, the memories in their own heads, and the memories of them in other people’s. And if memories are like a city, and we are our memories, then we are like cities too. I’ve always taken comfort in that.

- Tom Pollock, The City’s Son (via lastchatwithphontaine)
Sunday, 17th of August with 2,605 notes


Aldo Radrizzani’s Schmidt Archive

Saturday, 16th of August with 8,216 notes