shadows make things easy

kelsey. 19. infj.

[brennatwohy]

Swallowtail, by Brenna Twohy

[dappledwithshadow]

Van Gogh study and painting of The Anatomy of Man, and the sculpture he copied, by Michelangelo. 

[hollowterrain]

Louise Bourgeois, The Welcoming Hands,1996, Bronze with silver nitrate

[dappledwithshadow]

Lois Dodd (American, b.1927) Reflected Light on Brick Wall – December (2014), oil on masonite, 18 x 15 ¾ inches

[evokesart]

Henri Matisse - Apollon, 1953 

[dasfinanzamt-deactivated2026030]

hall of mirrors, silêmanî, kurdistan (x)

the pieces of broken mirror represent 182,000 victims of the anfal campaign, and the lights represent the 4,500 kurdish villages wiped off the map.

[enchantemoimerlin]

Wayne Thiebaud

Triangle Beach 2003-05

[dizkuar]

[allthemuches]

2 dudes, chillin in open graves, 5 feet apart cause they’re not gay

[astratic]

This is actually an art piece by Miller & Shellabarger where they dug graves connected by a tunnel so they could hold hands. They are very much gay and irl married

[csevet]

they are in fact married for real

[tristamateer]

In the dream, we are strangers knee to knee on a train. It’s the most we ever touch. I still write about you. I still end up here. There is something to be said for a love that refuses to melt. A love stored in the freezer, in a ziplock bag. Stashed behind the ice cube tray. Always waiting to be pulled out. Willing to thaw, to forgive like spring, to pick up right where it left off. You, cradling a phone in the crook of your arm. Me, crying about produce. You call, and I answer. You say, “Do you know what an air traffic control room looks like? All those switches and buttons blinking? When I hear your voice, everything lights up all at once for me. Nobody else does that.” I don’t say anything eloquent. So we’re back on the train, with the knees, only this time you’re looking me in the face and I’m staring out the window. What do you think happens when love gets left out too long?

Trista Mateer (via 7-weeks)

[retroavangarda]

Henri  Matisse – As If She Has Never Seen Me…, 1943

[wordsnquotes]

I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough to make every moment holy. I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough just to lie before you like a thing, shrewd and secretive. I want my own will, and I want simply to be with my will, as it goes toward action; and in those quiet, sometimes hardly moving times, when something is coming near, I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone. I want to be a mirror for your whole body, and I never want to be blind, or to be too old to hold up your heavy and swaying picture. I want to unfold. I don’t want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie. and I want my grasp of things to be true before you. I want to describe myself like a painting that I looked at closely for a long time, like a saying that I finally understood, like the pitcher I use every day, like the face of my mother, like a ship that carried me through the wildest storm of all.

Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God (via wordsnquotes)

[odinsblog]

Something for all the “But Mike Pence!!!” types still arguing that we shouldn’t try to impeach Trump.(article)

[pigmenting]

I’m thinking about people and trees and how I wish I could be silent more, be more tree than anything else, less clumsy and loud, less crow, more cool white pine, and how it’s hard not to always want something else, not just to let the savage grass grow.

Ada Limón, from “Mowing” in Bright Dead Things  (via pigmenting)

[crystallizations]

Jenny Holzer Living series at the MOMA.

“YOU SHOULD LIMIT THE NUMBER OF TIMES YOU ACT AGAINST YOUR NATURE, LIKE SLEEPING WITH PEOPLE YOU HATE. IT’S INTERESTING TO TEST YOUR CAPABILITIES FOR A WHILE BUT TOO MUCH WILL CAUSE DAMAGE”

[trappedangel-deactivated2017061]

I put my sadness in a box. The box went soft and wet and weak at the bottom. I called it Thursday. Today is Sunday. The town is empty. I stood in the road looking forward and back, to see if it would change something. After a while, I went back inside and tripped over the box.

Richard Siken, THE FIELD OF ROOMS AND HALLS (via trappedangel)

[eliaswoo]

Getty Center by Richard Meier

[tristamateer]

It is May and the nights blend together like butter and honey or peaches and cream, but not both. Which is to say, nothing is going how I thought it would. This is last June in reverse. The boxes are filling themselves. I am sleeping next to the packing tape. The old hurt is spilling out everywhere. My heart is buzzing again. My heart is a wasp’s nest. My heart is a monument to absence. A postcard that says: YOU WERE HERE ONCE, BUT YOU’RE NOT ANYMORE. All of my dreams are about being weightless. Leaving the heaviness outside and praying for rain in Texas. I put my regret into a box and write FREE TO A GOOD HOME on the side of it. I still hope everyone who walks by has the good sense not to pick it up. I am waiting for someone other than myself to call this predictable. To tell me it had to go this way. To say, I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU REALLY EXPECTED.

SEPARATION IN THE AMERICAN SOUTH by Trista Mateer (via backshelfpoet)