Daniel Richter (German, b. 1962), Trevelfast, 2004. Oil on canvas. 282.9 x 232.1 cm.

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Daniel Richter (German, b. 1962), Trevelfast, 2004. Oil on canvas. 282.9 x 232.1 cm.
Thierry De Cordier (Belgian, b. 1954), Mer grosse [Heavy seas], 2011. Oil on paper mounted on panel, 163 x 150.5 cm. source
via artchipel
A hot dry wind blows right through me
Paintings and self-portrait by Léon Spillaert (1881-1946)
Ondřej Basjuk (Czech, b. 1983), Duchamp. Acrylic on canvas, 200 x 200 cm.
John Dugdale, Turbulent Dream, 1998
- MIGUEL LEAL | PROTEUS MAG)
Let’s suppose that you were able every night to dream any dream you wanted to dream, and you would naturally as you began on this adventure of dreams, you would fulfill all your wishes. You would have every kind of pleasure, you see, and after several nights you would say, well that was pretty great, but now lets have a surprise, lets have a dream which isn’t under control. Well something is going to happen to me that i don’t know what it’s gonna be. Then you would get more and more adventurous, and you would make further and further out gambles as to what you would dream, and finally you would dream where you are now.
If you awaken from this illusion, and you understand that black implies white, self implies other, life implies death — or shall I say, death implies life — you can conceive yourself. Not conceive, but feel yourself, not as a stranger in the world, not as someone here on sufferance, on probation, not as something that has arrived here by fluke, but you can begin to feel your own existence as absolutely fundamental. What you are basically, deep, deep down, far, far in, is simply the fabric and structure of existence itself.
- Alan Watts
Mitchell Peterson
Diver, 480 BC (Greek wall painting)
- Paestum, Italy
Egon Schiele
“Les Amants”
Thom Yorke
Rainer Fetting (German, b. 1949), Selbst mit Mauer [Self with wall], 1977. Dispersion on cotton, 116 x 105 cm.
via amare-habeo
From The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa
When I consider, with all the clarity I can muster, what my life has apparently been, I imagine it as some brightly coloured scrap of litter - a chocolate wrapper or a cigar ring - that the eavesdropping waitress brushes lightly from the soiled tablecloth into the dustpan, amongst the crumbs and crusts of reality itself. It stands out from those things whose fate it shares by virtue of a privilege that is also destined for the dustpan. The gods continue their conversations above the sweeping, indifferent to these incidents in the world below.
Fernando Pessoa