Overlooking Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco, 1956 by David Boyer (via)
Sep 22: Azealia Banks performing at ‘The Broke With Expensive Taste Preview Tour’ in Paris.
“Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for - in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it.”
― Ellen Goodman
A lot Rebecca’s beautiful sculptures (casts) make me think of rotting corpses that have been infested either in life or after death with fungal blooms and flowers erupting from bone and flesh. Below are a few of her pieces that include skulls but make sure to check out the rest of her sculptures as they are great.
"How nice — to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive."
Kurt Vonnegut (via observando)
Sometimes art can have rather cryptic titles that need to be carefully elaborated, but that’s not the case in these works by Nicholas Mottola Jacobsen. The title describes pretty precise what the artist has done; tear off pieces of drawings, photos, and illustrations in order to create new pieces of art. In his series ‘Pixelation’ he also transforms pictures, hiding selected pieces of the whole image in order to create a new perspective.
My light installations use the camera obscura as a point of departure. they are immersive optical environments, idealized spaces with discreet openings. in translating the outside world into moving fields of light and color, the projections make an argument for an unfixed notion of sight. motion emphasizes the vitality of these projections. whether through the slow arc of the sun, the kinetic pace of pedestrian traffic, or a sometimes easy pulse of wind, each work responds to an environment in flux.
He seems like crying,don’t you think?
he looks like he doesn’t know who that person on the telly is and a little bit afterwards he remembers that this strange alien-like person is David himself.
Laura Makrabresku: "The Two Sisters" [ Attention: cruelty, transgression of forbidden zoophilia.]
New fairy tale:
"It is a fairy tale my Grandmother told me when as a little girl I accidentally burned my hands with fire. I remember that I couldn’t stop crying, certain that after what happened, my arms would never cover in feathers and I would never turn into a wild bird. Grandmother let my long, golden hair down and slowly combing it out with her fingers, she said:
There was once upon a time a widower who had two daughters. And that the Younger One was born with arms resembling two rotten birch branches or rather two bones, old and blackened as if brought up from a hundred-year old grave. Embarrassed in front of other people and God himself, of her awful malformation, her Father locked her up in the attic banning her from ever leaving the room.
The girl kept her arms wrapped in old bandages and in fear of human gaze, she didn’t dare to even take a glimpse at the attic window. The only consolation she found was her Older Sister, who visited her daily in the room embellishing her crippled arms with colourful ribbons and kisses, quiet and sweet.
One day Father went to the forest to fetch some wood for fuel, for the winter approaching was cruel. But before he left, he commanded the Older Sister to guard the room and under no circumstances let anyone into the house in his absence. But the moment the silhouette of the Father disappeared behind the dark horizon of the forest, the Older Sister rushed to the neighbouring lake where she caught a great, white swan, for she desired nothing more but for her little Sister to experience love at least once in her life.
People are evil and insensitive, said she carrying quietly into the room a great winged bird scented in water and air. Before Father comes back, your fragile hands will learn how to touch and your body will be captured in the trembling and anxious flight of the bird under the stormy sky.
And the swan listened to all the commands and obediently fulfilled all of what the Sisters desired. Like this three nights had passed. Drunk with love the girls completely forgot about Father who only just came back home from the forest. In fear of his punishment they killed the bird at once and to hide all the traces of his existence, they ate him to the last feather. But while eating, the Younger Sister spilt his blood on the floor. Wiping it off the floor with water or covering it with ash failed them along with all their other attempts. Thus the small stain grew into the size of a puddle and then it was as large as the lake in the forest; it became deeper and gleamed stronger and stronger in light. And when Father came and saw what had happened, he locked the Sisters under the key and commanded to wall up the doors to their room entirely. Forevermore.
The sleep came quickly veiling them in warm cobweb and ferns, taking their pain away. “