To Spuddle and Squiddle

Spuddle; To assume airs of importance without reason and make trifles seem important. Squiddle; To waste time with idle talk.

[anunituinuruk]

It has been a very long time.

[laclefdescoeurs]

The Sirens’ song, Wilhelm Kray

[silent--era]

Marie Prevost photographed by Edward Thayer Monroe, 1923

[nemfrog]

A diagram illustrating the role of light and shadow in painting and drawing, acceptable in the Victorian era but not on Tumblr in the 21st century.

[daughterofchaos]

The Sleep of Sorrow and the Dream of Joy | Photo by Scott Wylie on Flickr

[monkparker]

www.mirrormirrorworldworld.com

[monkparker]

Before deleting my previously-beloved Tumblr site on December 17 I’ll revisit some favorite ostensibly pornographic photos & paintings from the past seven (very pleasant) years.

[palaisgarnier-deactivated202208]

[yesterdaysprint]

Kansas Farmer, Topeka, Kansas, February 6, 1896

[beggars-opera]

Everyone reblog this as much as possible over the next two weeks for good luck

[nemfrog]

Alpine flowers for gardens. 1910 ed. Book cover.

[lionofchaeronea]

Portrait of a Gardener and Horn Player in the Household of the Emperor Francis I, Albert Schindler, 1836

[loumargi]

Jose Royo

[heaveninawildflower]

‘Girl in a Satin Dress with Roses.’ Gelatin silver print by Gertrude Käsebier (1852–1934).

Image and text courtesy MFA Boston.

[distantvoices]

[rococopasteloworld]

Into the Woods (2014)

[loumargi]

Alexandre-Auguste Hirsch (1833-1912), Night

[jacenyra]

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror’s magic sights, For often thro’ the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights       And music, came from Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead Came two young lovers lately wed; ‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said       The Lady of Shalott. 

She left the web, she left the loom She made three paces thro’ the room She saw the water-flower bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume,       She look’d down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack’d from side to side; 'The curse is come upon me,’ cried       The Lady of Shalott. 

With a steady stony glance— Like some bold seer in a trance, Beholding all his own mischance, Mute, with a glassy countenance—       She look’d down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day: She loos’d the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away,       The Lady of Shalott.