— Hermann Hesse, The Glass Bead Game (via saloandseverine)
10:17 pm 484 notes
10:14 pm 3,287 notes
"I’ve been making music my whole life, but I have the hardest time selling myself. And selling yourself is necessary if you want to be a successful artist. I can play something amazing, and I can say: ‘That’s just how I like it.’ But then I always lose my confidence, and say: ‘But who am I? And why does it matter what I like?’"
10:13 pm 7,216 notes
"I’m trying to figure out what direction I should be moving in."
"What direction are you currently moving in?"
"I’m not sure I’m moving."
How great is the darkness in which we grope,
William James said, not speaking of the earth, but the mind
split into its caves and plinth from which to watch
its one great fight.
And then, when it is over,
when those who populate your life return
to their curtained rooms and lie down without you,
you are alone, you are quarry.
11:28 pm 188 notes
balmy summer nights and mandarin peels. how people move their hands when they speak. the intersection between past present and future, and everything that’s both lost and found. human contradictions. long fingers of light sweeping through a train carriage. boys with soft, curious eyes. boys with beautiful hands. all hands in general. old people hands. callouses and dimples and the way new skin grows back so much whiter, so much cleaner. being touched tenderly, being touched brusquely, just being touched. my mother bending over in the kitchen, or on the bed’s edge rubbing lotion into her heels. split lips and honeysuckles. blue mosquito lights in public bathrooms. abandoned roadside furniture and the way people try to say goodbye with their bodies when words are useless. familiar cities that don’t feel like home, and unfamiliar ones that do. the smell of basil, the smell of cherry tomatoes, the smell of burnt butter. the fact that none of us really know where we’re going, but we’re going anyway. all this blind, mad hope and hearts that threaten to vibrate out of their nests. “we are all going forward. none of us are going back.”
10:20 am 666 notes
10:16 am 55 notes
By collapsing cosmology onto intimate moments with his wife and daughter, our next featured artist creates images that suggest the esoteric spirituality present in family life. Using a large format camera to create his atavistic photographs, Alario says that “We are on a search for the spiritually significant, the magic in every day. What will we find that’s worth passing down? What will we conjure?”
Alario received an MFA in photography from the Rhode Island School of Design in 2013, and a BFA from the Massachusetts College of Art and Design in 2006. He was named a 2011 emerging photographer by Art New England, and received a 2012 Fellowship Merit Award from the Rhode Island State Council of the Arts. Alario lives and works in Providence, Rhode Island.
5:01 pm 2 notes
James Vincent McMorrow - Cavalier
So James Blake and Bon Iver had a magical music baby. Le voilà!
12:38 pm 111,443 notes
My local humane society posts pictures of new adoptions. This one makes me so happy.
brb bawling my eyes out
I can’t even…
12:54 pm 2 notes
We have lips and we have skin. We make this distinction, but it is an ambiguous one. At what point does skin become lip, and lip become skin? I recently discovered that there is a name for this liminal space; the enigmatic line between lip and skin is called the vermilion border.
I mentioned this to a friend, and she commented on the absurdity of nomenclature. She mused that etymology can explain the origins of names up to a point, but if you go back and back and back, you can imagine that the word emerged from some stewing ether, or was crafted by a deliberate, tinkering taxonomist.
There is a wonderful book by Alain Berthoz called The Brain’s Sense of Movement, and what Berthoz does is create conditions that astronauts will encounter in a weightless environment and, in the process, he makes up words all the time because there is no language for what he’s describing.1
While some words smack of pragmatism and solidity (table, rock, ground), others are more ethereal, weightless. Back and back and back, some anonymous poet - the Berthoz of anatomy - made a decree. The space of not-skin and not-lip on a face will be called the vermilion border.
1. Robert Enright, “Precision Coercion and Delight: An Interview With Mowry Baden,” Border Crossings no. 127 (2013): 25.
Images (clockwise from top): Elizabeth Peyton, Democrats are more beautiful (after Jonathan Horowitz), 2001, oil on board, 25.4 x 20.3 cm (via). Joyce Wieland, O Canada, 1970, lithograph, 57.4 x 76.4 cm (via). Geneviève Cadieux, La Voie Lactée, 1992, mixed media, dimensions variable (via).
Language, that strange, persistent thing we can never unlearn, and yet - how completely arbitrary a decision it was to create the very first word and how incredible that, like that first word, every single one after it has appeared from nothing.
I think about this all the time.