It Me @lowsicklearc - Tumblr Blog

artfoli

Still-life with Oranges, c. 1863, Rafael Romero Barros (1832-1895)

huariqueje

Comfort Cat - Rene Gruau 1953

Italian-French 1909-2004

orwell

home of french ceramic artist marguerite carbonell (1910-2008) world of interiors Oct 07

katnissism

“Newsom discussed the “fear of loss” that informed her fourth album, and how it was prompted by her marriage to comedian Andy Samberg. “Everyone’s getting older. When I crossed that line in my mind where I knew I was with the person that I wanted to marry, it was a very heavy thing, because you’re inviting death into your life. You know that that’s hopefully after many, many, many, many years, but the idea of death stops being abstract, because there is someone you can’t bear to lose. when it registers as true, it’s like a little shade of grief that comes in when love is its most real version. Then it contains death inside of it, and then that death contains love inside of it.”

— Joanna Newsom, in an interview with UNCUT Magazine

joannanewsomtruisms

PALACES AND STORMCLOUDS, AND THE ROUGH, STRAGGLY SAGE, AND THE SMOKE, AND THE WAY IT WILL ALL COME TOGETHER (IN QUIETNESS, AND IN TIME)

pastperfectcontinuous

And what does jealousy like? Jealousy likes information. Jealousy likes details. Jealousy likes the vast quantities of shiny hair, the cute little pencil case. Jealousy likes photos. That's why Instagram is such a hit. (Laughter) Proust actually links the language of scholarship and jealousy. When Swann is in his jealous throes, and suddenly he's listening at doorways and bribing his mistress' servants, he defends these behaviors. He says, "You know, look, I know you think this is repugnant, but it is no different from interpreting an ancient text or looking at a monument." He says, "They are scientific investigations with real intellectual value." Proust is trying to show us that jealousy feels intolerable and makes us look absurd, but it is, at its crux, a quest for knowledge, a quest for truth, painful truth, and actually, where Proust is concerned, the more painful the truth, the better. Grief, humiliation, loss: These were the avenues to wisdom for Proust. He says, "A woman whom we need, who makes us suffer, elicits from us a gamut of feelings far more profound and vital than a man of genius who interests us." Is he telling us to just go and find cruel women? No. I think he's trying to say that jealousy reveals us to ourselves. And does any other emotion crack us open in this particular way? Does any other emotion reveal to us our aggression and our hideous ambition and our entitlement? Does any other emotion teach us to look with such peculiar intensity?

— Parul Sehgal, “An ode to envy”

#just fuck me up

soracities

[Text ID: “Did you ever feel colored-in when a boy found you with his mouth? What if the body, at it’s best, is only a longing for body? the blood racing to the heart only to be sent back out, filling the routes, the once empty channels, the miles it takes to take us toward each other. Why did I feel more myself while reaching for him, my hand midair, than I did having touched him?”]

Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous: A Novel

artist-varo

Sympathy, 1955, Remedios Varo

Medium: oil,masonite

https://www.wikiart.org/en/remedios-varo/sympathy-1955

days-of-reading

soracities

“When we got married, I bought a kitchen set: pots, frying pans, ladles, all brand-new, magnificent aluminium. I was quite satisfied and very sure that my wife would be enthusiastic about them. But when she saw all of the shiny, new objects she said, with a note of anxiety: “Oh dear, I wish they were already old!”

It wasn’t exactly what I had hoped to hear, but it was undoubtedly an expression of her good love. An expression of love that instead of enjoying the initial surprises and pleasures, thinks about what will last, what is permanent. Shiny and new, these pots were not yet ours. Once old, carbon-stained, and battered, they would be ours and their deterioration would reflect our fire, our food, our times, our shared lives.”

Josefina Vicens, The Empty Notebook