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  lauriekang:

  Untitled, dyed photographic paper on chromogenic paper

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  m3zzaluna:

  john demos, athens, greece, tinos, 1986

  posted by/ thanks to wonderfulambiguity

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  ornamentandcrime:

  Miroslav Tichý

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  dontrblgme:

  (via Hanna IV Photography)

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  sculpting-in-time:

  Arielle de Pinto Fanned Hair Fork

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  idreamofeclecticsheep:

  Marcel Breuer: Wassily Chair [1925]

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  Portland (PDX) has these telephone poles around town with years & years of poster after poster on top of each other. I have been photographing them all over the city since I first moved here. Some are so amazing looking and make the best abstract photographs! Check ‘Um.

  ronulicny:

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  poobah:

  specs

  slowleaner:Шикарное фото - Fishki.Net | Сайт хорошего настроения

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  ornamentandcrime:

  Michael Grater - Paper Faces, 1968 

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  After weeks of contemplating future moves inside out and upside down, this evening, I finally came to the decision to move out of the city. Before I could officially close the books, an opportunity to stay presented itself and I was almost swayed by some friends. We all know when you live in a place long enough, and make it your own and meet friends who become your family and your rocks, that surely you can always come visit or even if things don’t work out… move back, no problem! Visiting, yes. Move back? Not part of my plan. I moved to Toronto in 2000 and passionately hated this city until about 2007. In that time, I secured an Italian passport and dual citizenship with the dream of running off to Europe. As a dry run, I decided to check out a couple of European cities on my own - I struck out to visit  Amsterdam and Berlin. Explored both cities by bike, metro, train and my own two feet. Consulted with maps, talked to drivers, shop keepers, citizens and met fellow travelers. The experience was incredibly humbling. One afternoon, while enjoying a beer amongst some old ruins turned courtyard turned outdoor bar in Germany, I made a promise to myself.  That when I got back home, I would teach myself how to love Toronto and I couldn’t leave until I learned how to live there. So I did. I explored the city’s ravines, both the Don and Humber River banks, visited all different kinds of churchs, heritage buildings, tiny museums, abandoned buildings, bridges and rail road tracks, off beaten spots by the lake in both the west and east ends of the city, biked to neighborhoods so far north, that the bike ride back down to my apartment was beyond exhausting, drank beer in tucked away parkettes, tanned on big rocks and small beaches that I can’t now recall how to get to, along with many bonfires and group picnics on the Toronto island. I made an active point to learn about historical streets, spots, facts and little known architectural gems in this city. I earned Toronto.

  Through this process I fell in and and out love for the first time and I also taught myself how to take photographs. The past five years have undoubtedly transformed me and I can say with heartfelt confidence that I now know what it takes to make a place your home and truly love it.

  I can’t wait to do it again.

  “A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image.”
  Joan Didion

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  artlistpro:

  Alfred Stieglitz, Georgia O’Keeffe, Hands and Horse Skull, 1931

  via bremser:

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  towerofsleep:

  douglashaddow:

  From Douglas Coupland’s “Marshall McLuhan: You know nothing of my work”

  Marshall had another health scare in 1971. An angiogram revealed that his carotid artery was blocked, but it was during the discovery of this that surgeons discovered his feline blood circulation: his external carotid artery (the artery that supplies blood to the face, scalp, and jaw) had formed huge connecting channels through the left base of his skull and inside his skull. Had it not been for his one-in-a-billion vascularization, Marshall’s brain would have been toast long ago. He considered this vascularization to be a miracle. Who’s to say it wasn’t?

  From The Paris Review’s interview with Coupland:

  Marshall McLuhan’s left cerebral cortex was vascularized in a way only ever before seen in mammals in cats. He wasn’t just different; he was very different.

  
  

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  floresenelatico:

  Lygia Clark

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  realityayslum:

  Lee Miller - Eileen Agar, 1937.

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  therumbling:

  Helen Frankenthaler (via Vosgesparis)

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  youtreau:

  Selenite Sculpture by Robin Peck 1976

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  historyofprotest:

  Can makeup cover the wounds of our oppression?

  Women protest Miss America pageant in Atlantic City, NJ in 1968

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  neithernor:

  research

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  bryanschutmaat:

  Tim Carpenter

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  disturber-magazine:

  Justin Visnesky

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  oldtimefriend:

  by Sophie

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  I’ve yet to discover a figure as potent as Pasolini in Italian culture. His films and poetry deeply inspire me and his graceful and profound gestures challenged ingrained notions of Italian sexual, religious and political conservatism. I am ever so grateful that he existed.

  “Stranger, don’t fear my tender return
  across mountains, I am the spirit of love”

  i12bent:

  Tonight’s spotlight is on PPP:

  Italian film director and writer, Pier Paolo Pasolini (1922 - 1975, murder)…

  Pasolini was a high profile public intellectual in Italy (and in later years increasingly international in his thinking) - growing increasingly left-leaning in his beliefs.

  He will be remembered for his visually radical movies, often re-makes of classical myths and tragedies - from Oedipus Rex to Medea…

  —

  A PPP poem:

  Song of the Church Bells
  
  When evening dips inside water fountains
  my town disappears among muted hues.
  
  From far away I remember frogs croaking,
  the moonlight, the cricket’s sad cries.
  
  The fields devour the Vespers’ church bells
  but I am dead to the sound of those bells.
  
  Stranger, don’t fear my tender return
  across mountains, I am the spirit of love
  
  coming back home from faraway shores.
  
  [from Poesie a Casarsa, original title: Canto delle campane, translated by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai]

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  therumbling:

  senza titolo / untitled (1969/2001) (via ro/lu)

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  museumuesum:

  MARCEL DUCHAMP

  Cigarette, 1936

  Gelatin silver print
  30.0 x 20.7 cm

  Without its paper wrapper, Duchamp’s cigarette becomes something else entirely-a potent signifier of sexuality stripped bare; a naked assemblage of chance in which the liberated tobacco rejoices in disarray. It may also represent a visual pun on the term découpage, which literally means “cutting out” but is more broadly defined as a mixing of elements-for instance, the text and images in George Hugnet’s book of poemes-découpages for which Duchamp created this image. In the book, a page of text and symbols in different typefaces is juxtaposed with pasted images and scraps of text from other printed media. Poetry and collage work together-or against each other-to simultaneously create and undermine meaning through a seemingly random grouping of disparate elements.