[iamheavymeta-lll]

Women from the Chipko movement hugging trees to prevent them from being cut down — Garhwal India ‘1970

[str-ngeloop]

this is where 'treehugger' comes from btw. indian women putting their bodies between trees and logging equipment

[rosieandthemoon]

By Konstantin Vasilyev, 1967

[garadinervi]

Agatha P. Bennett, "Monkey Wrench" – sixteen-block variation, (cotton), 1970 [Souls Grown Deep Foundation, Atlanta, GA. © Estate of Agatha Bennett / ARS, New York. Photo: © Stephen Pitkin/Pitkin Studio]

[thunderstruck9]

John Little (Canadian, 1928-2024), Rue O'Connell Angle St-Simon, in Disappearing Quebec, 1968. Oil on canvas, 12 x 16 in.

[1five1two]

'I am born of a thousand storms'. Harry Clarke. 1920.

[huariqueje]

Night Glow - Daniel Ablitt

British , b. 1976 -

Oil on panel , 27 x 40 cm.

[lalulutres]

Eight of Wands. Art by Lacey Bryant, from The Slow Tarot.

[malibuklaus]

[camillefaglia]

cy twonbly if he slayed

[weepingwidar]

Hayley Barker (American, 1973) - Orb Weaver, Late Summer (2024)

[nevver]

The deep end, Gil Rigoulet

[milksockets]

'many scratched doors,' 1994 in sigalit landau - gabriele horn + ruth ronen (2008)

[ub-sessed]

White Americans ... are terrified of sensuality and do not any longer understand it. The word “sensual” is not intended to bring to mind quivering dusky maidens or priapic black studs. I am referring to something much simpler and much less fanciful. To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread. ... Something very sinister happens to the people of a country when they begin to distrust their own reactions as deeply as they do here, and become as joyless as they have become. It is this individual uncertainty on the part of white American men and women, this inability to renew themselves at the fountain of their own lives, that makes the discussion, let alone elucidation, of any conundrum—that is, any reality—so supremely difficult. The person who distrusts himself has no touchstone for reality—for this touchstone can be only oneself. Such a person interposes between himself and reality nothing less than a labyrinth of attitudes. And these attitudes, furthermore, though the person is usually unaware of it (is unaware of so much!), are historical and public attitudes. They do not relate to the present any more than they relate to the person.

--James Baldwin, The Fire Next Time, 1963

[weepingwidar]

Esther Sarto (Danish, 1992) - Night in the Red Room (2017)

[brucespringsteencomments]

[bofransson]

Sunny Meadow Hans Emmenegger - 1904

[harkandheed]

Parachutes, My Love, Could Carry Us Higher - Barbara Guest

I just said I didn’t know And now you are holding me In your arms, How kind. Parachutes, my love, could carry us higher. Yet around the net I am floating Pink and pale blue fish are caught in it, They are beautiful, But they are not good for eating. Parachuted, my love, could carry us higher Than this mid-air in which we tremble, Having exercised our arms in swimming, Now the suspension, you say, Is exquisite. I do not know. There is coral below the surface, There is sand, and berried Like pomegranates grow. This wide net, I am treading water Near it, bubbles are rising and salt Drying on my lashes, yet I am no nearer Air than water. I am closer to you Than land and I am in a stranger ocean Than I wished.

[smokefalls]

To encounter oneself is to encounter the other: and this is love. If I know that my soul trembles, I know that yours does, too: and, if I can respect this, both of us can live. Neither of us, truly, can live without the other: a statement which would not sound so banal if one were not endlessly compelled to repeat it, and, further, believe it, and act on that belief.

James Baldwin, The Devil Finds Work