Sol

26•Agender•they/them/theirs•Pansexual

[thecollectibles]

Art by Mona Finden

[thoughtkick]

“It’s so hard to forget pain, but it’s even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace.”

— Chuck Palahniuk, Diary

[stolenchapstick]

[hobo-shades-blog]

[witchesversuspatriarchy]

Slow magick

[happyheidi]

IG: silver.sini

[witchesversuspatriarchy]

……

[feral-ballad]

Yves Olade, from Bloodsport; “When rome falls”

[redmann-4523]

[wintercorrybriea]

draya michele for lace by tanaya show II: look 35

[divineandmajesticinone]

VIVIENNE WESTWOOD Spring/Summer 1997 

[greyg4rdens]

backstage @ susan fang s/s20

[givemearmstopraywith]

[pussylipgloss]

thinking about getting kissed on the neck instead of paying attention while walking across the street is gonna be the way I die

[spitfiresol]

[collectorsweekly]

Previously unpublished photographs of the Native American occupation of Alcatraz, 1969.

[melisica]

[wordsandroads]

These, for me, are the two most depressing paintings in western history. They were painted by post-impressionist Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec, a man who, due to inbreeding, was born with a genetic disorder that prevented his legs from growing after they were broken. After being so thoroughly mocked for is appearance, he became an alcoholic, which is what eventually caused his institutionalization and death. His only known romantic relations were with prostitutes. And then he paints something like this which is so beautiful and tender and sentimental. It seems like the couple in bed really loves each other–cares about each other. Wakes up happy to look at each other. And I see that love and passion and I wonder how lonely he must have been. I wonder how he could paint something like this without it breaking his heart.  Maybe they say artists should create what they know, not because its unbelievable when they extend themselves beyond their experiences, but because when they pull it off with such elegance, it’s so damn unbearable to look at. I hate thinking of Lautrec, wondering about the lovers he created and knowing it was beyond his experience. Creating something that he knows is beautiful and knows he’ll never really understand.