Drawings of the moon by Galileo Galilei, January 7, 1610
Reblogged from Consistently Inconsistent.
June 17, 2013, 10:00am
Reblogged from Victor Marqué.
June 17, 2013, 3:14am
Martin Usborne. Nice to Meet You.
It Was a Long Time Ago.
I Also Work at the Bank.
I Love You.Abandoned dogs photographed through different materials.Each image in this series is a portrait of a dog photographed through a material or substance: a wet pane of glass, faint smoke, dense material, bleeding light. Nearly all of the dogs are abandoned, untrained, often aggressive. One is a wolf. (Every dog was carefully handled and protected in the process). The images are titled with everyday phrases that so often hide subtexts.
June 17, 2013, 2:58am
You are tired,
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,”
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
So am I.
— e.e. cummings (via pipwasreal)
June 17, 2013, 2:38am
For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959
and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959
Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.
We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.
My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in the stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.
June 12, 2013, 6:11pm
They will try to make you read it, the book of plagues,
written by the dangerous one behind the stars. Do not
believe their dusty proverbs. I am a good woman.
They’ll tell you we are banished, but this isn’t exile.
It’s a refuge from a nation of titans. Know that a man
does not have to be bigger than the tower he builds,
but a battlefield must be wider than the bodies below it.
This is yours—this cup of rain we pass as we sing.
This is yours also—what a man will do for a woman.
He will lay her in sage and empty his spurred heart
into her mouth. She will listen with her body until
he is relieved, the way the moon is relieved
when it tells its secrets to water by lying down on it.
I’ve never met a man without demons. Not the priest
with his scourge, nor the sailor who believes dead whales
lashed to the ship speak to him as he sharpens harpoons.
Not even the blacksmith who came home to find his wife
dead, and then beat her for leaving him. How can I
convince you that this is love? Is it luckier to have a redeemer
who will kill for you? One who will die for you?
Or one who will use your flesh to quiet his burning cigarette?
Stranger inside me, when you are born, I will give you
a closed book and ask you to never read it, never rest,
never forgive a man who wants to save you.
June 12, 2013, 2:51pm
Reblogged from Horrorgrafia..
June 03, 2013, 2:40pm
The Unretouched Beauty, 2012. Tintype with hand-applied oil paint, 10 x 7 7/8”.
A Portrait of Dave Coulter Inside and Out, c. 1980. Photograph with hand-applied oil paint, mounted on illustration board, 19 3/4 x 15 7/8”.
June 02, 2013, 2:49pm