art, books and coffee

art, music, books, dark, light and chaotic academia, history, classics, and lots and lots and lots of thoughts. and black coffee. welcome. J., 20.

[oldpaintings]

Emile-Allain Séguy (French, 1877--1951)

[too-much-imagination]

Flaming June

Frederic Leighton; 1895

The Painter's Honeymoon

Frederic Leighton; 1864

[too-much-imagination]

I want somebody. I want somebody

to hug,

to kiss,

to touch,

to love.

I want to lay down with someone and kiss them until we forget how to breathe. I want to make them shiver and call out my name. I want to give them the best time of their lives.

I want to

pleasure someone,

love someone,

worship someone.

I have so much to give and no one to give it to.

What a waste.

[too-much-imagination]

Akiya Kageichi

Can’t get enough of this art.

[too-much-imagination]

Self-portrait with Candles

Lily Delissa Joseph, before 1940

Lily Delissa Joseph was born in a Jewish family in Bermondsey, London, England on 24 June 1863. Her older brother was the artist Solomon Joseph Solomon (1860–1927).

She exhibited, among others, with the Society of Portrait Painters, the New English Art Club, the Society of Women Artists, and at the Royal Academy (1905–1938), as well as in the Paris Salons - where she won a silver medal in 1929 and a gold in 1934.

Deeply involved in the women's suffrage movement, she was famously unable to attend her own Private View for her exhibition 'Some London and Country Interiors' at the Baillie Gallery, London in 1912 after being detained at Holloway Gaol 'on a charge in connection with [the] Women's Suffrage Movement'.

An early cyclist, she was one of the first women to own and drive a car (motoring to Palestine in the 1920s), and also learnt to fly aeroplanes when in her fifties.

Lily Delissa Joseph was also well-known for her musical voice in the communal singing at the Brook Green synagogue in Hammersmith (having also been active in its establishment).

You can find more here:

Lily Delissa Joseph (née Leah Alice Solomon) was born to an Anglo-Jewish father, Joseph Solomon, and an Austrian-Jewish mother Helena (née L

[too-much-imagination]

The Commons Petitioning Elizabeth I to Marry

Solomon Joseph Solomon; 1911

[too-much-imagination]

how the fuck it always gets worse after a few good days, i’m so sick of it, so sick of life

i don’t wanna end it, i’m just so fucking tired

i don’t know what to do, don’t know how to relax, how to make my mind stop thinking

my head hurts, i’m sleepy but i don’t wanna sleep, and i still think about her from time to time and it’s killing me, WHY THE FUCK AM I DOING THIS TO MYSELF

i can’t wait to finally get somewhere far away from here at last

[too-much-imagination]

Lucretia Borgia Reigns in the Vatican in the Absence of Pope Alexander VI

Frank Cadogan Cowper, c. 1910

[too-much-imagination]

Guernica

Pablo Picasso, 1937

An anti-war painting created in response to the bombing of Guernica (1937) during the Spanish Civil War by Nazi German and Italian Fascists supporting Francisco Franco, the fascist Spanish leader.

[too-much-imagination]

The Desperate Man / Desperation; self-portrait by Gustave Courbet, 1843-1845

The Man Made Mad with Fear; self-portrait by Gustave Courbet, 1843-1844

[too-much-imagination]

She tells everyone that we still have contact. She broke up with her boyfriend and says that she worries about „bringing a girl into her house”. This means she’s thinking seriously about getting me there.

I chatted with her two weeks ago. Two weeks. And she says we’re talking again.

We woke each other’s hearts, then we both broke them. Healing was painful, but I survived. And now you’re doing such things? Now you’re missing me? Now you send me pictures and quotes that used to be so important to us?

She texted me as soon as she broken up with her boyfriend.

I’m her escape, her safe space, her home. But she can’t treat me only like this. I’m a human being. I deserve real love and care. Not just temporary affection. (This „temporary affection” lasts for almost four years now. This is how much time I’ve wasted.)

AND WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT ME TO A FRIEND WHO DOESN’T KNOW ME, WHY ARE YOU TELLING HER SO MUCH PERSONAL DETAILS? WHY DON’T YOU TELL ME YOU MISS ME AND YOU STILL LOVE ME AND YOU CAN’T GET OVER ME AND YOU REMEMBER EVERYTHING?

No. It cannot happen again. I can’t sacrifice myself again. I’m not the only one responsible for all that happens in the relationship. It can not happen again.

You hear me? Yes, I’m talking to you, the one typing this shit. You can’t fall for that nonsense again.

But she was my escape, my safe space, my home, my girl, she was mine and I was hers.

Why did you say all that…?

How dare you spark hope in me?

Oh, God…

[too-much-imagination]

I want somebody to paint me.

it’s a metaphor, do your thing

[too-much-imagination]

Selene; Ferdinand Keller, 1886

Selen thrown Down by Argus (the dog), a scene from the novel The Emperor by Georg Ebers.

[too-much-imagination]

i need a hug.

i desperately need a hug.

and i know it wouldn’t end with only a hug.

i would drown in tears.

[too-much-imagination]

There is the next one.

Stolen glances again. Heart pounding in my chest after a mere brush of the hand. Warmth pouring into my body when they wait for me, just for me. Sparkly eyes during so many laughs and smiles. Light conversations, some shy attempts to talk seriously but making it seem like joking around eventually.

All of it once more.

I end up writing about something that hasn’t even started yet.

All of it once more.

And I’m scared it will end the same.

[shayandas]

"So, what of next year's resolutions?", I heard my friend ask the other day and found myself stuck in a quiet storm, stirring the ache of all the changes I'd wished for but never lived this year. New days, new weeks, new months, new years—how often I've chased the illusion of 'new', convinced that everything would start from the very beginning—only to find myself, each day, pleading for the following day—begging each week for another week. How dearly I've celebrated the turning of each year, like prophets ushering in salvation, only to discover the freshness of the same calendar fading by February, the corners dog-eared, and promises—so solemnly sworn—becoming ghosts lingering in the silence of unkempt rooms. As if the trees that shed their twigs in autumn do not grow the same leaves with the same roots in spring—as if when flipping pages in a book, the story never retains its plot—as if the mere change of a night could unshackle the chains of a lifelong sorrow.

Shayan Das, New Year's Resolutions

[too-much-imagination]

Eleanor of Aquitaine.

One of the wealthiest and most powerful women in Western Europe during Middle Ages.

Queen Eleanor; Frederick Sandys, 1858