becoming an artist (again) @queer-divine-dissatisfaction - Tumblr Blog

"Eternal Pain - The Severed Head of Medusa" (1913) by Paul Darde — Gypsum sculpture

We know a lot about the star’s library — when she died in 1962, she owned more than 400 books, diligently cataloged and auctioned in 1999. There’s documented marginalia and scribblings that suggest a serious reader, and anecdotes about her reciting poems at parties, reading Proust on set, and expounding on Whitman, Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. She had strong opinions about Hemingway: “Those big tough guys are so sick, they aren’t even all that tough. … They always want to kill something to prove themselves.” (LA Times)

redlipstickresurrected

Richard Ahnert (Canadian, based Toronto, Canada) - Sly Spy, 2024, Paintings: Oil on Canvas, Private Collection

jeniferprince

I've got a crush on you 💘

patreon // buy prints here

callousedhope

Author unknown

mournfulroses

Marcel Proust, from a story featured in "The Complete Short Stories of Marcel Proust," originally published in 2001

How Zines Taught Me To Be a Novelist

The small secretary desk where I write is tucked into a corner of my bedroom. I spent hundreds of mornings here, shaping and reshaping the m

"I recently unearthed a photo of this first “office,” circa 1997. With bleach-blonde hair I sit surrounded by my analog universe of cassette tapes, a mug full of pens and glue sticks, stacks of books, a tape gun, outgoing mail, and a box full of received letters. Printed photographs are tacked to the cork board. My turntable is out of the shot, but a few records from my collection are visible in the bottom left-hand corner. These were my tools."

#zines #zine #reminder #Diy culture

"An artist’s studio is a place of struggle and triumph, of delight and despair. It is where theatrics is replaced with vulnerability, show with substance. It is where an artist is most himself, alone with the madness from which he churns meaning."

Anjuli Mathai. [*]

For Tony.

"He was unpolished, unkempt, tangled in vice after vice, and somehow still hopeful. A hopeless romantic disguised as a cynic. (....)

He was a poet and a wanderer. Curious as a kid and rough around the edges. Vulnerable without asking for sympathy, and wise enough to never think he knew more than you. He was sharp enough to cut through bullshit and soft enough to recognize the beauty of messy things.

He loved food, music, art, travel, and stories. He knew that conversations can be as intimate as sex and sometimes far more revealing. He treated people with nothing to offer him as though they had everything to offer him. He was kind to the right people.

To me, he wasn’t a hero. He was my people. A guiding force. A cross between a shaman and a troubadour if both were slightly degenerate and hungover. I appreciated both his wonder and his wreckage."