Sweet Seals For You, Always
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Sade Olutola
izzy's playlists!
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Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!
todays bird
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Origami Around
shark vs the universe
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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macklin celebrini has autism
Not today Justin
if i look back, i am lost
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Xuebing Du
official daine visual archive
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@phoebedickerson
‘One belongs to New York instantly, one belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years’
Tom Wolfe
Photos; Spoonbill and Sugartown, Brooklyn: A Doorway in Greenpoint: A photograph by Seidou Keita (1921-2001), a Malaian photographer, in MOMA; Brooklyn Public Library
A little street scene, commissioned by Myla and Davis for a project they were working on earlier this year.
Return of the Rude Boy exhibit at Somerset House - some seriously inspiring styles on show.
PARIS JANVIER
in with the new.
When the Old Year met with the New, he was soaked to the bone with rain. He had smoke in his hair from the fireworks and his eyes stung with all the glitter. The night - all the dance and the drink - had been heavy on him and his throat was dry. Someone had persuaded him to change into his pyjamas. The New Year took one look at the Old one and smiled a sharp smile, all regular and breath-freshened. He was wet too, but his suit was patent plastic and he’d taken a comb to his hair and made it look intentional: more slick, less ratty. His eyes had sparklers in them, shooting out shine. The Old Year reached out his hand to greet the New. The New grinned like an old friend and, grabbing the Old in a big bear hug, pumped him firmly on his back with a flat fist. From out the wide mouth of his collar, the Old Year flew into pieces: he burst wide, far, scattering himself everywhere in a cloud of thousand-coloured ash. His jim-jams rumpled to the floor in a whisper of brushed cotton. The New Year smoothed himself down, adjusted his collar, and walked on. On his shoulders, dark and broad in the dawning day, flecks of something not-quite-finished flickered.
White Summer (as I dream of a White Christmas) in Mykonos.
If you don't know www.helen-glory.com, check them out. This is from Claudia's tumblr but her blog with her friend Frances is super stylish too.
Untouched by editing tools: Roscarrock farm in Cornwall, this last Friday. Just past the little building you could see the sea edging its way between the hills.
Mexico meets London: a supper of chilli con carne rustled up by my man last night. I felt like I should have had flowers in my hair, like Frieda Kahlo.
Clean Bandit - 2010 - Frank's Peckham
Just stumbled over these photos of Clean Bandit's gig on the rooftop of a multistorey car park back in 2010. I can't believe it was so long ago. Everyone was dancing like crazy.
The time, wherein Citrons are to be gathered, is from the Tree in the night time, when there is no Moon-light stirring. Pontanus a Coun|try-man of ours hath elegantly set down this matter. If you desire, saith he, to keep Citrons long without any harm or loss of their vigor, you must take this course: Pluck off the fruit together with the branches & leaves as they were upon the Tree, in the night time when the Moon shines not at all: Then hang them up upon some hook or tack in some dark and close place; see that you touch them but very softly, and let not any winde come at them; or else lay them up amongst chaffe and cry straw; So shall you keep the fruit sound and good, and the leaves also green for a great while together.
-- from Giambattista Della Porta, Natural Magick , trans. into English in 1658.
'The sea is calm tonight
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand
glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.'
- Matthew Arnold, Dover Beach
T H E I L L U S I O N I S T
Last weekend I went to see the Caulfield exhibition at Tate Britain. I've always loved his work - the economy of line, the bold colours, the compositional vigour - but I had never before realised the full extent of his imagination: his ability to create Escher-like spaces and situations in which you hang - uncertain quite which way you can go. And of course, you can go nowhere, because you are merely staring at a canvas: and yet, the questions are compelling ones: 'how do I get in?' 'how will I get out?'
The exhibition is solely paintings, but some of Caulfield's simplest and most graphic works are his screenprints. I think my favourite is 'Bathroom Mirror', 1968 (above). I love how it juggles a peppermint clarity and an obstinate opacity, with its refusal to reflect the viewer.
Long time I've been out of the tumble. I return, but for who knows how long. I just wanted to say, I like my new hat. £8 for a woven paper hat with a braided green band, and from a shop in CHELSEA to boot: put that in your pipe and smoke it.
the sun's thumbprint melting into the river...
'That night two lovers whispering under the lead canopy of the church were killed by their own passion. Their effusion of words, unable to escape through the Saturnian discipline of lead, so filled the spaces of the loft that the air was all driven away. The lovers suffocated, but when the sacristan opened the tiny door the words tumbled him over in their desire to be free, and they were seen flying across the city in the shape of doves'.
- from Jeanette Winterson's Sexing the Cherry (1989).
- photo by me.
