Photo 25 Feb 723 notes

(Source: topulence)

via My Fotolog.
Photo 25 Feb 1,373 notes s-c-r-a-p-b-o-o-k:

Pilar Wiley Ceramics

s-c-r-a-p-b-o-o-k:

Pilar Wiley Ceramics

(Source: ricochet)

Photo 25 Feb 249 notes

(Source: nee420)

Photo 25 Feb 7,080 notes

(Source: m-0-r-g-a-n-a)

Photo 25 Feb 838 notes italdred:

(by jaellevi)

italdred:

(by jaellevi)

(Source: italdred)

Photo 25 Feb 457 notes artruby:

Kiluanji Kia Henda, The Merchant of Venice, (2013).

artruby:

Kiluanji Kia Henda, The Merchant of Venice, (2013).

Photo 25 Feb 80 notes supruntu:

Алексей Киняпин

supruntu:

Алексей Киняпин

Video 25 Feb 367 notes

7knotwind:

BRIDGET RILEY

Photo 25 Feb 48 notes phillipfinderceramics:

http://yuichi-chiba.com
Photo 25 Feb 189 notes isawtoday:

Journeys End In Lovers Meeting
Hanne Gaby Odiele by Walter Chin for Glass #14 Summer 2013

isawtoday:

Journeys End In Lovers Meeting

Hanne Gaby Odiele by Walter Chin for Glass #14 Summer 2013

(Source: virare)

Photo 25 Feb 20 notes ymutate:

Richard Müller (Tschirnitz 1874 - Dresda 1954), A piedi nudi, Acquaforte, 1914

ymutate:

Richard Müller (Tschirnitz 1874 - Dresda 1954), A piedi nudi, Acquaforte, 1914

via .
Video 25 Feb 2,634 notes

mimbeau:

"La vitrine de Romi" (Romi’s window)

Paris 1948

Robert Doisneau

Photo 25 Feb 225 notes theparisreview:

Ignatz Domesticus
Then one day she noticed the forest had started to bleed into her waking life. There were curved metal plates on the trees to see around corners. She thought to brush her hand against his thigh. She thought to trace the seam of his jeans with her thumbnail. The supersaturated blues were beginning to pixellate around the edges, to                  become a kind of grammar. Soot amassed in drifts in the corners of the room. She placed a saucer of sugar water under her lamp and counted mosquitoes                  as they drowned. A soft brown dot loomed large in her concern. She pressed her thumb into the hollow of his throat for a while and then let                  him go.
—Monica Youn.Art credit Michael Gregory.

theparisreview:

Ignatz Domesticus

Then one day she noticed the forest had started to bleed into her waking life. 
There were curved metal plates on the trees to see around corners. 
She thought to brush her hand against his thigh. 
She thought to trace the seam of his jeans with her thumbnail. 
The supersaturated blues were beginning to pixellate around the edges, to
                  become a kind of grammar. 
Soot amassed in drifts in the corners of the room. 
She placed a saucer of sugar water under her lamp and counted mosquitoes
                  as they drowned. 
A soft brown dot loomed large in her concern. 
She pressed her thumb into the hollow of his throat for a while and then let
                  him go.

Monica Youn.
Art credit Michael Gregory.

Photo 25 Feb 6,904 notes larameeee:

la boheme

larameeee:

la boheme

(Source: c-inismus)

via Larameeee.
Photo 25 Feb 614 notes artemisdreaming:

.


Farfallettina
Shaking all over, she arrives near the lamp, and her dizziness grants her one last vague reprieve before she goes up in flames. She has fallen into the green tablecloth, and upon that advantageous background she stretches out for a moment (for a unit of her own time which we have no way of measuring) the profusion of her inconceivable splendor. She looks like a miniature lady who is having a heart attack on the way to the theater. She will never arrive. Besides, where is there a theater for such fragile spectators?…. Her wings, with their tiny golden threads, are moving like a double fan in front of no face; and between them is this thin body, a bilboquet onto which two eyes like emerald balls have fallen back….
It is in you, my dear, that God has exhausted himself. He tosses you into the fire so that he can recover a bit of strength. ( Like a little boy breaking into his piggy bank.)
~ Rainer Maria RilkeFrom: The Complete French Poems, Poems and Dedications, 1920-26translation: Stephen Mitchell
.


The original in French:   Farfallettina.  Tout agitée elle arrive vers la lampe et son vertige lui donne un dernier répit avant d’être brûlée. Elle s’est abattue sur le tapis vert de la table et sur ce fond avantageux s’étale pour un instant le luxe de son inconcevable splendeur. On dirait, en trop petit, une dame qui avait une panne en se rendant au Théâtre. Elle n’y arrivera point. Et d’ailleurs où est le Théâtre pour de si frêles spectateurs? Ses ailes dont on aperçoit les minuscules baguettes d’or remuent comme un double éventail devant aucune figure; et entre elles ce corps mince, bilboquet où sont retombés deux yeux en boule d’émeraude. C’est en toi, ma chère, que Dieu s’est épuisé. Il te lance à la flamme pour regagner un peu de sa force. (Comme un enfant qui casse sa tire-lire.) 
Image:  siradisi.org 

artemisdreaming:

.

Farfallettina

Shaking all over, she arrives near the lamp, and her dizziness grants her one last vague reprieve before she goes up in flames. She has fallen into the green tablecloth, and upon that advantageous background she stretches out for a moment (for a unit of her own time which we have no way of measuring) the profusion of her inconceivable splendor. She looks like a miniature lady who is having a heart attack on the way to the theater. She will never arrive. Besides, where is there a theater for such fragile spectators?…. Her wings, with their tiny golden threads, are moving like a double fan in front of no face; and between them is this thin body, a bilboquet onto which two eyes like emerald balls have fallen back….


It is in you, my dear, that God has exhausted himself. He tosses you into the fire so that he can recover a bit of strength. ( Like a little boy breaking into his piggy bank.)


~ Rainer Maria Rilke
From: The Complete French Poems, Poems and Dedications, 1920-26
translation: Stephen Mitchell

.

The original in French:   Farfallettina.  Tout agitée elle arrive vers la lampe et son vertige lui donne un dernier répit avant d’être brûlée. Elle s’est abattue sur le tapis vert de la table et sur ce fond avantageux s’étale pour un instant le luxe de son inconcevable splendeur. On dirait, en trop petit, une dame qui avait une panne en se rendant au Théâtre. Elle n’y arrivera point. Et d’ailleurs où est le Théâtre pour de si frêles spectateurs? Ses ailes dont on aperçoit les minuscules baguettes d’or remuent comme un double éventail devant aucune figure; et entre elles ce corps mince, bilboquet où sont retombés deux yeux en boule d’émeraude. C’est en toi, ma chère, que Dieu s’est épuisé. Il te lance à la flamme pour regagner un peu de sa force. (Comme un enfant qui casse sa tire-lire.) 

Image:  siradisi.org 


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