February 2010
194 posts
January 2010
75 posts
“The duende… Where is the duende? Through the empty arch comes a wind, a mental wind blowing relentlessly over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents; a wind that smells of baby’s spittle, crushed grass, and jellyfish veil, announcing the constant baptism of newly created things.”
—Frederico Garcia Lorca, excerpt from “In Search of Duende,” 1955
you know who you are...
Perhaps this is overtly personal. Perhaps my journey through an eating disorder will become an insignificant remnant of adolescent-hood, but I could never really believe that. I have learned so much about myself in the process and come out so proud. There is nothing more profound than defeating the demon we manifest in ourselves. I have deep love for all women struggling with the difficulties of self image. I want them to know that we are waiting. You are on the other side.i wish you could get better. all of you. i only got better by confronting my friend and realizing i couldn’t help her if i didn’t get myself together first. she’s in the hospital and here i am, trying to reach out to whoever will listen.
i hope my followers who understand what i’m saying will take a step closer to recovering, however small that may be. i don’t want to preach, saying you all are perfect the way you are, appearances don’t matter, because i know it won’t help. i’ve been on both sides. all i want to say is that your real life is waiting for you outside of this disease. go live it.
“
I am for art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum…
I am for art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary…
I am for art that joggles like everyones knees, when the bus traverses an excavation…
I am for art that is smoked, like a cigarette, smells, like a pair of shoes…
I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches…
I am for the art of neck-hair and caked tea-cups, for the art between the tines of restaurant forks, for the odor of boiling dishwater…
I am for the art of meowls and clatter of cats and for the art of their dumb electric eyes…
I am for the art of rust and mold, I am for the art of hearts, funeral hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat…
add:
I am for art that is combed down, that is hung from each ear, that is laid on the lips and under the eyes, that is shaved from the legs, that is brushed on the teeth, that is fixed on the thighs, that is slipped on the foot.
square which becomes bobbly
” —Excerpts from Documents from The Store (1929) by Claes Oldenburg
“He looked around him as if seeing the world for the first time. The world was beautiful, strange and mysterious. Here was blue, here was yellow, here was green sky and river, woods and mountains, all beautiful, all mysterious and enchanting, and in the midst of it, he, Siddhartha, the awakened one, on the way to himself.”
—
excerpt from Siddhartha by Herman Hesse (via thecapsizingsun) (via americansatori) (via crashinglybeautiful)
One of my favorite books.
“The consciousness of the personal and spontaneous in the painting and sculpture stimulates the artist to invent devices of handling, processing, surfacing, which confer to the utmost degree the aspect of the freely made. Hence the great importance of the mark, the stroke, the brush, the drip, the quality of the substance of the paint itself, and the surface of the canvas as a texture and field of operation — all signs of the artist’s active presence. The work of art is an ordered world of its own kind in which we are aware, at every point, of its becoming.”
—
Meyer Schapiro
Why I cannot stand Andy Warhol. My own work may not be in the same vein as abstract impressionism, but this I wholly stand by.
Animal Tracks
Mountain Man
Mountain Man - Animal Tracks
Play
“He should realize that the beauty of any one body is brother to the beauty of any other, and that if he is to pursue beauty of form he’d be very foolish not to think that the beauty of all bodies is one and the same.”
—from the speech of Diotima
Plato, The Symposium
Plato, The Symposium
“He speaks. With many tears and sighs he feeds his soul on what is nothing but a picture.”
—Lines 658-9 of Virgil’s The Aeneid
