Bikaner, Jangarth, India 1985, Bruno Barbey.
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Bikaner, Jangarth, India 1985, Bruno Barbey.
Superstock / Getty Images. Man waiting for a train at a railway
“The secret of blue is well kept. Blue comes from far away. On its way, it hardens and changes into a mountain. The cicada works at it. The birds assist. In reality, one doesn’t know….The mystery of sapphire, mystery of Sainte Vierge, mystery of the siphon, mystery of the sailor’s collar, mystery of the blue rays that blind and your blue eye which goes through my heart.”
— Jean Cocteau, from “The Secret of Blue”
“Blue makes no noise. It is a shy colour, without ulterior motives, forewarning or plan; it does not leap out abruptly at the eye like yellow or red, but draws it in, tames it little by little, lets it come unhurriedly, so that it sinks in and drowns, unaware.”
— Jean-Michel Maulpoix, A Matter of Blue: Poems
“Blue still brings a principle of darkness with it. This colour has a peculiar and almost indescribable effect on the eye. As a hue it is powerful but it is on the negative side, and in its highest purity is, as it were, a stimulating negation.”
— Goethe, Theory of Colours
“Blue has no dimensions, it is beyond dimensions, whereas the other colours are not. They are pre-psychological expanses, red, for example, presupposing a site radiating heat…All colours arouse specific associative ideas, psychologically material or tangible, while blue suggests at most the sea and sky, and they, after all, are in actual, visible nature what is most abstract.”
— Yves Klein, Selected Writings
“For many years, I have been moved by the blue at the far edge of what can be seen, that color of horizons, of remote mountain ranges, of anything far away. The color of that distance is the color of an emotion, the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not. And the color of where you can never go.”
— Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost
by Chris Chabot
Auguste Rodin - Eternal Springtime, 1884
Saudade means nostalgia, I’m told, but also nostalgia for what never was. Isn’t it the same thing? At a café in Rio flies wreathe my glass. How you would have loved this: the waiter sweating his knit shirt dark. Children loping, in tiny suits or long shorts, dragging toys and towels to the beach. We talk, or I talk, and imagine your answer, the heat clouding our view. Here, again, grief fashioned in its cruelest translation: my imagined you is all I have left of you.
Saudade, John Freeman
During my stay in Zion National Park I also made a hike to the Emerald Pools where you can walk behind the waterfalls. Well, during that time of the year the waterfalls are not much more than a few drops, but it was very beautiful though. :)
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Le gardien du musée, Paris 2016 © Magoo Mccoy
I want to be the kind of monster you / don’t want to fuck—
Ana Božičević, from “Casual Elegy for Luka Skračić,” Rise in the Fall (via lifeinpoetry)
Portraits of Interiors by Massimo Listri
Cr: @iluminacje
The folklore among knitters is that everything handmade should have at least one mistake so an evil sprit will not become trapped in the maze of perfect stitches. A missed increase or decrease, a crooked seam, a place where the tension is uneven - the mistake is a crack left open to let in the light. The evil sprit I want to usher out of my knitting and my life is at once a spirit of laziness and of over-achieving. It’s that little voice in my head that says, I won’t even try this because it doesn’t come naturally to me and I won’t be very good at it.
Kyoko Mori, ‘Yarn’
That last phrase especially - “I won’t even try this because it doesn’t come naturally to me and I won’t be very good at it.” It really is like some kind of all-encompassing evil spirit sometimes.
(via blancheparish)
Prague by Justine.C
#relatable
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