[ilariaemario]

My gift

I'LL TELL YOU MY SECRET: I SEE DUMB PEOPLE.

-In your dreams? While you're awake? Dead people like, in graves? In coffins?

-Walking around like regular people. They don't see each other. They only see what they want to see. They don't know they're dumb.

-How often do you see them?

-ALL THE TIME

[ilariaemario]

Listen/purchase: BSXC EP by Buffalo Sex Change

[ilariaemario]

They don't burn in hell, they fill SN's forms

Dear Mario, here you are another extract of my exciting life...  

Biography. 150 characters. First Issue: do i really have to define me? boring. I mean, it's me myself boring and defining boring people it's proba(blabla)bly the most boring thing to do, or at least, in the top ten of the BOREST* things. Also, there's the 150 chars thing...Seriously? I mean, Really?? 'nuff said

*i know but thinking up words makes me feel like a lil god, the NewWordsGod-PraiseMe!- **For the record Borest is also a little french municipality (just 370 souls). Hi Boresters! ( i know, I did it again)

[ilariaemario]

next project

m i n d t h  e  g  a   p

[uffkhudaya]

As women, when we’re children we’re taught to enter the world with big hearts. Blooming hearts. Hearts bigger than our damn fists. We are taught to forgive - constantly - as opposed to what young boys are taught: Revenge, to get ‘even.’ Our empathy is constantly made appeals to, often demanded for. If we refuse to show kindness, we are reprimanded. We are not good women if we do not crush our bones to make more space for the world, if we do not spread our entire skin over rocks for others to tread on, if we do not kill ourselves in every meaning of the word in the process of making it cozy for everyone else. It is the heat generated by the burning of our bodies with which the world keeps warm. We are taught to sacrifice so much for so little. This is the general principle all over the world. By the time we are young women, we are tired. Most of us are drained. Some of us enter a lock of silence because of that lethargy. Some of us lash out. When I think of that big, blooming heart we once had, it looks shriveled and worn out now. When I was teaching, I had a young student named Mariam. She was only 11 years old. Some boy pushed her around in class, called her names, broke her spirit for the day. We were sitting under a chestnut tree on a field trip and she asked me if a boy ever hurt me. I told her many did and I destroyed them one by one. I think that’s the first time she ever heard the word ‘destroyed.’ We rarely teach our girls to fight back for the right reasons. Take up more space as a woman. Take up more time. Take your time. You are taught to hide, censor, move about without messing up decorum for a man’s comfort. Whether it’s said or not, you’re taught balance. Forget that. Displease. Disappoint. Destroy. Be loud, be righteous, be messy. Mess up and it’s fine – you are learning to unlearn. Do not see yourself like glass. Like you could get dirty and clean. You are flesh. You are not constant. You change. Society teaches women to maintain balance and that robs us of our volatility. Our mercurial hearts. Calm and chaos. Love only when needed; preserve otherwise. Do not be a moth near the light; be the light itself. Do not let a man’s ocean-big ego swallow you up. Know what you want. Ask yourself first. Decide your own pace. Decide your own path. Be cruel when needed. Be gentle only when needed. Collapse and then re-construct. When someone says you are being obscene, say yes I am. When they say you are being wrong, say yes I am. When they say you are being selfish, say yes I am. Why shouldn’t I be? How do you expect a woman to stand on her two feet if you keep striking her at the ankles. There are multiple lessons we must teach our young girls so that they render themselves their own pillars instead of keeping male approval as the focal point of their lives. It is so important to state your feelings of inconvenience as a woman. We are instructed to tailor ourselves and our discomfort - constantly told that we are ‘whining’ and ‘nagging’ and ‘complaining too much.’ That kind of silence is horribly violent, that kind of insistence upon uniformly nodding in agreement to your own despair, and smiling emptily so no man is ever uncomfortable around us. Male-entitlement dictates a woman’s silence. If we could see the mimetic model of the erasure of a woman’s voice, it would be an incredibly bloody sight. On a breezy July night, my mother and I were sleeping under the open sky. Before dozing off, I told her that I think there is a special place in heaven where all wounded women bury their broken hearts and their hearts grow into trees that only give fruit to the good and poison to the bad. She smiled and said Ameen. Then she closed her eyes.

A Woman of War by Mehreen Kasana (via pbnpineapples)

this is so empowering! beautiful 

(via dirtyflowerchild)

[ilariaemario]

The #fall of @pdaddymichele (Cometocus, #cesoire)

[ilariaemario]

#regret

[ilariaemario]

Bruised

[ilariaemario]

Crystal Clear.

[ilariaemario]

[ilariaemario]

Oblò Vista. Soahead. (Quasi-AvantGarde)

[ilariaemario]

hilarious word of the day

Rent  (..........................................)

[ilariaemario]

(…)From the back

[ilariaemario]

Airport nap.

[ilariaemario]

EventuallySpring. Love is in the air (everywhere I look around)

[failedprojects]

The post-internet art object looks good in the online installation view, photographed under bright lights in the purifying white space of the gallery (which doubles the white field of the browser window supporting the documentation), filtered for high contrast and colors that pop. The post-internet art object looks good online in the way that laundry detergent looks good in a commercial. Detergent doesn’t look as stunning at a laundromat, and neither does post-internet art at a gallery. It’s boring to be around. It’s not really sculpture. It doesn’t activate space. It’s frontal, designed to preen for the camera’s lens. It’s an assemblage of some sort, and there’s little excitement in the way objects are placed together, and nothing is well made except for the mass-market products in it. It’s the art of a cargo cult, made in awe at the way brands thrive and proliferate images in networks, awe at the way networks are ruled by brands. It’s like a new form of landscape painting, a view of the world as it is, and that’s why its visual vocabulary is hard to distinguish from that of advertising and product displays. An artist’s choice to make art that way—as a plain reflection of reality and the power systems that manage it—shows a lack of imagination, when there are so many other ways of making art available. Post-internet artists know what the internet is for, and it’s for promoting their work. Post-internet art flaunts a cheap savvy of image distribution and the role of documentation in the making of an art career. Post-internet art seems like art about the idea of art world success—the art one would make to become a well-known artist if one doesn’t care about anything else.

Why I Hate Post-Internet Art « (via failedprojects)

Dear Mario,

I know, reblogging so much is not my style, BUT, You have to read this. Remember the last night conversation?..

[ilariaemario]

Hilarious word of the day

commodity

(cmon, isn't it funny???)