Ezra Briaron

Trying not to on a Tuesday, and again on Wednesday.

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[hotelchaka-blog]

Guy Bourdin, one of my favorite photographers.

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[momentsofbeing]

[rudygodinez]

Francesca Woodman, Untitled, (1975-1976)

Above is a contact sheet produced by Woodman while attending the Rhode Island School of Design. It shows Woodman in her studio interacting with hand drawn images of geometric shapes with which her body seems to interact.  Although she did produce a series of images that included a male friend, the vast majority of Woodman’s work revolves around the female body…usually her own. “It’s a matter of convenience,” she said. “I’m always available.” But even as an adolescent posing for herself, her photographs weren’t about her. She was simply the model in the photograph. That approach became more and more intentional as she matured as a woman and as a photographer. As her work progressed, Woodman as a person tends to disappear from the images. We rarely see her face; only her body.

[kalliope-amorphous]

She is a problem because she is a seducer, and I — I mean we — love to be seduced, though we also resent it, and she is a problem because she is a suicide, and suicides are seductive because we all want to die sometimes, and dead young women artists and dead women artists of any age are a problem because it has always been easier for this culture to love their artworks when they, the women, are not alive to interfere with our relations with them, and her precocity was and remains a problem because of its completeness and because precocity is also always resented and dismissed, and she is a problem because it has historically been too easy to praise what is dead and too difficult to nurture what lives, and she is a problem because she is a martyr and ours is a culture addicted to martyrs and martyrology and powered by competition and self-loathing, which leads to the wrong kind of death, and she is a problem because the relation between life and nonlife or the animate and the inanimate is the subject of her photographs and this is too easily mistaken for merely gothy or pre-Raphaelite morbidity or Surrealistish oneirism, and she is a problem because when I look at her pictures I identify with them completely and therefore resent analyzing them as I resent mere praise or critique, and she is a problem because I cannot deny that I identify not only with her images but with real and documented aspects of her despair, and she is a problem because she was not only female but feminine in ways that have caused her work to have been seen as insufficiently critical or insufficiently conscious of its critical potential, and she is a problem because the fact that she appears in her own photographs has caused many to mistake them for self-portraits which they are not, and she is a problem because her photographs do not merely contain elements of nostalgia but they produce nostalgia plastically, though this ache of desire for something somehow lost or past cannot be located in mere mundane time and little resembles her actual times, in a manner analogous to the way Proust’s In Search of Lost Time manufactures its own time, which cannot but trump actual history even as it is generous enough to include it.

excerpt from An Hourglass Figure: On Photographer Francesca Woodman by Ariana Reines

The most important piece ever written about Francesca Woodman, in my opinion

(via kalliope-amorphous)

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Home

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Photo // Ingeborg Morath Masks // Saul Seinberg

Saul Seinberg The Passport 1954

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Posts about SAUL STEINBERG written by CANDY PING PONG

[fluttering-slips]

Dust Someone spoke to me last night, told me the truth. Just a few words, but I recognized it. I knew I should make myself get up, write it down, but it was late, and I was exhausted from working all day in the garden, moving rocks. Now, I remember only the flavor— not like food, sweet...

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FancyMan

I wished I could have stayed on that webcam for longer. Just in silence, watching you eat pizza. Burning your thingy and picking up melted cheese off your chin. I had nothing to say to you of any importance since earlier but I could look at you forever. You are great company when I cant hear you. 

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Have you been raped? are you pregnant? are you unprivileged? is your level of english poor? Would you like to terminate your pregnancy? Are you in Ireland?

Get out of here, 

Do not seek help 

or else

we will confuse you, 

we will poke and prod you

we will judge you 

we will disregard you

we will keep you in the dark

we will force you

to have that baby

then discard you. 

While the nation talks about you

and what happened.

About your rape

and weeks of gestation

and your hunger strike

and refusing water

and the court order

and the caeserian 

and about how you didnt understand our system

Poor 

Silly 

Woman

All life is precious here.

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Risk of Flooding

I, am the most stylish man in this Southern City.

I am turned out with magnificent taste, 

Catching your eye from way down the main street,

My suit getting sharper with every block 

Impeccable. Fine. Art.

I am handsome.

I breathe true confidence,

I sweat perfumed misery. 

Frustrated by my place. 

I have nothing to celebrate.

This town is a sty of ignorance.

They do not even notice me here.

It brings no joy then, 

To be the best.

Here, among the blind.

I have achieved nothing.

Here, it is easy.

I have no pride.

In my existence. 

Here, I will stay.

I will not leave.

Here, I do not have to try.

Out of boredom I let go.

Waiting for inspiration to come on the seasons issue

I fade and take my place 

On the Grand Parade with all the greats.

In the southern sun 

Reflecting the stars of the river past onto my face

And catch your eye 

As you recall how that coat has lost its fine shape

And how I, used to be taller. 

Reflections blind us

We cannot see in passing

But I have walked this bridge many times before

My shoes know the way home by now. 

By Gregory Alft in Songs Half Baked, 2001

[oofpoetry]

You’re sad because you’re sad. It’s psychic. It’s the age. It’s chemical. Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll you need to sleep. Well, all children are sad but some get over it. Count your blessings. Better than that, buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet. Take up dancing to forget. Forget what? Your sadness, your shadow, whatever it was that was done to you the day of the lawn party when you came inside flushed with the sun, your mouth sulky with sugar, in your new dress with the ribbon and the ice-cream smear, and said to yourself in the bathroom, I am not the favorite child. My darling, when it comes right down to it and the light fails and the fog rolls in and you’re trapped in your overturned body under a blanket or burning car, and the red flame is seeping out of you and igniting the tarmac beside you head or else the floor, or else the pillow, none of us is; or else we all are.

Margaret Atwood, “A Sad Child” (via oofpoetry)

[st-pam]

Pen again. Colours added in SAI. I have a problem with this drawing. And I’m not sure what it is