bones of lumière

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[neshamama]

william eggleston, “field of daisies and lupins,” 1978, chromogenic print

[last-picture-show]

Duane Michals, This Photograph Is My Proof - “This photograph is my proof. There was that afternoon, when things were still good between us, and she embraced me, and we were so happy. It did happen. She did love me. Look, see for yourself!” USA, 1967

[il-etait-lune-fois]

Meudon - Photographie argentique

[bonesoflumiere]

“Though I may seem at times somewhat distant from you, through the gray mist of my own moods, I am never far; my thoughts always circle around you.”

— Nietzche, from Selected Letters

[bonesoflumiere]

“Try to understand me: I love you while paying attention to external things. At Toulouse I simply loved you. Tonight I love you on a spring evening. I love you with the window open. You are mine, and things are mine, and my love alters the things around me and the things around me alter my love.”

— Jean Paul-Sartre (b. 21 June 1905) in one of his letters, Witness to My Life: The Letters of Jean-Paul Sartre to Simone De Beauvoir, 1926-1939

[bonesoflumiere]

“In the month of red leaves I climb to a bed of fire.

I am lost, I am lost, in the robes of all this light.”

— Sylvia Plath, from Poem For A Birthday (6. Witch Burning) in “The Collected Poems Of Sylvia Plath”

[bonesoflumiere]

“I know you here in the darkness,”

— D.H. Lawrence, from The Selected Poems; “Everlasting Flowers,”

[huariqueje]

Model and mirror   -    Ellen Thesleff , 1924.

Finnish, 1862-1946

Oil on cardboard, 40 x 40 cm.

[bonesoflumiere]

“I dreamed my genesis and died again,”

— Dylan Thomas, excerpt from “I dreamed my genesis,” The Poems of Dylan Thomas

[tri-ciclo]

[bonesoflumiere]

“In a way, you are poetry material; you are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.”

— Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

[bonesoflumiere]

“But how mortal I am. How earthly love penetrates me.”

— Clarice Lispector, from An Apprenticeship

[bonesoflumiere]

“—and in longing     she bites her tender mind”

— Sappho, excerpt of “Fragment 96”, in If Not, Winter, tr. by Anne Carson

[partizany]

[bonesoflumiere]

"My soul-silence too is architecture;”

— Paul Valéry, tr. by Derek Mahon, from “The Seaside Cemetery,”

[gacougnol]

Mariusz Lukasik Toscana, Italy 2015

[bonesoflumiere]

“And in the predawn when we had slept for centuries in a drenching sweet rain you touched me and the springs of clear water beneath my skin were new knowledge. And I loved you in this city of death.”

— Joy Harjo, excerpt from “The Myth of Blackbirds,” How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems 1975-2002