[pablopicasso-art]

A simple meal (1904)

Pablo Picasso

[dappledwithshadow]

Otto Pankok Blühender busch c.1940′s

38.5 X 44.88 in (97.8 X 114 cm) Charcoal on buff-coloured paper, laid down on calico

[last-picture-show]

Vilhelm Hammershoi: 1. Dust Motes Dancing in Sunlight, 1900; 2. Interior, Strandgade 30, 1908

[ceramiclay]

Wendy Hoare

[darksilenceinsuburbia]

Patrick Hill

Participation and Withdrawal, 2013. Dye, concrete on wood panel and canvas // Portrait 4, 2012. Dye and concrete on canvas

[jagkanbliintetal]

The more our daily life appears standardised, stereotyped, and subject to an accelerated reproduction of objects of consumption, the more art must be injected into it in order to extract from it that little difference which plays simultaneously between other levels of repetition, and even in order to make the two extremes resonate—namely, the habitual series of consumption and the instinctual series of destruction and death.

Gilles Deleuze, Difference and Repetition (via herzogtum-sachsen-weissenfels)

[egonschiele-art]

Stein On The Danube, Seen From The Kreuzberg 1913

Egon Schiele

[darksilenceinsuburbia]

Tony Cragg

Hedge, 2016

[wanderingnewyork]

The #St_George_Station on the #Staten_Island_Railway.

#New_York_City_Subways #mtanyctransit

[dappledwithshadow]

Andrew Wyeth (American, 1917 - 2009) Doors & Windows

[theclassicsreader]

Other people are, as a rule, so immaterial to us that, when we have entrusted to any one of them the power to cause so much suffering or happiness to ourselves, that person seems at once to belong to a different universe, is surrounded with poetry, makes of our lives a vast expanse, quick with sensation, on which that person and ourselves are ever more or less in contact.

Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way (via theclassicsreader)

[laraiara]

A feeling for which I have no name has taken possession of my soul - a sensation which will admit of no analysis, to which the lessons of bygone times are inadeguade, and for which I fear futurity itself will offer me no key.

Edgar Allan Poe (via laraiara)

[salvadordali-art]

Leda’s Swan (Leda And The Swan) 1961

Salvador Dali

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

It’s an art as simple as drinking water from a tin cup; of loving that moment at the end of autumn, say, when the air holds no more promises, and the days are short and likely to be gray.  And there, just when you’re feeling your weakest, it floods you completely, leaving you weeping as you drive your car.

Joe Salerno, from Only Here: Poems; “Poetry is the Art of not Succeeding,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[noosphe-re]

The vast and intricate framework of the Hindenburg in Friedrichshafen, Germany, October 1934 (via io9)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Everything pains me. The merest trifle rouses a sense of abandonment. I’m impatient with other people, their will to live, their universe. Attracted by a decision to withdraw from everyone.

Roland Barthes, tr. by Richard Howard, from a diary entry featured in “Mourning Diary,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[dappledwithshadow]

Andrew Wyeth