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Illustrator, Performance Artist, NOLA Art House resident.

Apr 23

A Name

Alasdair Gray


lifesanocean:

Portrait of a Man - Theo Van Doesburg

lifesanocean:

Portrait of a Man - Theo Van Doesburg

(via seekmagic)


Apr 22

Nancy Fouts


heuristicdevice:

cauldronandcross:

The Wish (The Fortune Teller) Theodor von Holst ca. 1840

I saw this painting and was reminded of the poem “The Card Dealer” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. I decided to look the poem up and learned that the poem had originally been written as a meditation on the painting.  (http://www.rossettiarchive.org/docs/3-1849.raw.html#op77).  Awesome. Anyway, read the poem. It’s one of my favorites.
“The Card-Dealer” (1852; revised 1870) by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Could you not drink her gaze like wine? Yet though its splendour swoon Into the silence languidly As a tune into a tune, Those eyes unravel the coiled night And know the stars at noon.
The gold that’s heaped beside her hand, In truth rich prize it were; And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows With magic stillness there; And he were rich who should unwind That woven golden hair.
Around her, where she sits, the dance Now breathes its eager heat; And not more lightly or more true Fall there the dancers’ feet Than fall her cards on the bright board As ’twere an heart that beat.
Her fingers let them softly through, Smooth polished silent things; And each one as it falls reflects In swift light-shadowings, Blood-red and purple, green and blue, The great eyes of her rings.
Whom plays she with? With thee, who lov’st Those gems upon her hand; With me, who search her secret brows; With all men, bless’d or bann’d. We play together, she and we, Within a vain strange land:
A land without any order,— Day even as night, (one saith,)— Where who lieth down ariseth not Nor the sleeper awakeneth; A land of darkness as darkness itself And of the shadow of death.
What be her cards, you ask? Even these:— The heart, that doth but crave More, having fed; the diamond, Skilled to make base seem brave; The club, for smiting in the dark; The spade, to dig a grave.
And do you ask what game she plays? With me ’tis lost or won; With thee it is playing still; with him It is not well begun; But ’tis a game she plays with all Beneath the sway o’ the sun.
Thou seest the card that falls,—she knows The card that followeth: Her game in thy tongue is called Life, As ebbs thy daily breath: When she shall speak, thou’lt learn her tongue And know she calls it Death.

heuristicdevice:

cauldronandcross:

The Wish (The Fortune Teller) Theodor von Holst ca. 1840

I saw this painting and was reminded of the poem “The Card Dealer” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. I decided to look the poem up and learned that the poem had originally been written as a meditation on the painting.  (http://www.rossettiarchive.org/docs/3-1849.raw.html#op77).  Awesome. Anyway, read the poem. It’s one of my favorites.

“The Card-Dealer” (1852; revised 1870)
by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Could you not drink her gaze like wine?
Yet though its splendour swoon
Into the silence languidly
As a tune into a tune,
Those eyes unravel the coiled night
And know the stars at noon.

The gold that’s heaped beside her hand,
In truth rich prize it were;
And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows
With magic stillness there;
And he were rich who should unwind
That woven golden hair.

Around her, where she sits, the dance
Now breathes its eager heat;
And not more lightly or more true
Fall there the dancers’ feet
Than fall her cards on the bright board
As ’twere an heart that beat.

Her fingers let them softly through,
Smooth polished silent things;
And each one as it falls reflects
In swift light-shadowings,
Blood-red and purple, green and blue,
The great eyes of her rings.

Whom plays she with? With thee, who lov’st
Those gems upon her hand;
With me, who search her secret brows;
With all men, bless’d or bann’d.
We play together, she and we,
Within a vain strange land:

A land without any order,—
Day even as night, (one saith,)—
Where who lieth down ariseth not
Nor the sleeper awakeneth;
A land of darkness as darkness itself
And of the shadow of death.

What be her cards, you ask? Even these:—
The heart, that doth but crave
More, having fed; the diamond,
Skilled to make base seem brave;
The club, for smiting in the dark;
The spade, to dig a grave.

And do you ask what game she plays?
With me ’tis lost or won;
With thee it is playing still; with him
It is not well begun;
But ’tis a game she plays with all
Beneath the sway o’ the sun.

Thou seest the card that falls,—she knows
The card that followeth:
Her game in thy tongue is called Life,
As ebbs thy daily breath:
When she shall speak, thou’lt learn her tongue
And know she calls it Death.

(via annejamison)


Weekly Existential Crisis Concludes With…

A realization that I am, in fact, a coward.

I can overcome this cowardice by giving less fucks.

My job is making me miserable, which impacts my mood negatively, my art negatively, and my life negatively.

I need to suck it up and just leave my job full of unhappy, vengeful, passive-aggressive, misogynistic, racist, sexist coworkers.

Now is the time for me to arrange my priorities instead of avoiding them.

I am talented no matter what my brain keeps trying to convince me.

I can have opinions and express them.



It should have been a red flag the first time I got a murderous impulse at my job over something so trivial.


aqqindex:

A.W.N. Pugin, Modern Gothic Decoration, 1851

aqqindex:

A.W.N. Pugin, Modern Gothic Decoration, 1851


aqqindex:

Hans Dieter Schaal, Path Crossing a Tiled Platform that is Penetrated by Rocks, 1970s via betonbabetumblr

aqqindex:

Hans Dieter Schaal, Path Crossing a Tiled Platform that is Penetrated by Rocks, 1970s via betonbabetumblr



(via zimbabwe2003)


fucked up shit by Hieronymus Bosch

(via seekmagic)


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