Archive Arcade

@travellinglight

Film, Literature, Art, Photography, Randomness and Order and Chaos and locks that are waiting for keys... Foucault said visibility is a trap, but I've yet to listen... Copyright: this page does not claim ownership of any art, images, audio, video, or quotations contained here-in unless stated otherwise. Anything presented here is collected to encourage the viewer to explore the sources and I have attempted to credit the source and/or photographer. If for some reason you discover an instance of missing credit, I will remedy it upon notification or remove the item upon request.

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mattjayblog

travellinglight

mattjayblog

a study in color: antonioni’s “red desert”

A Piece of Monologue / Rhys Tranter

a photograph of Jacques Derrida's published books, arranged on shelves at his home in Ris Orange, France, 2001. Photograph by Andrew Bush.

moonriversong-blog

Visit Original Link

travellinglight

i12bent

Nina Simone: Feeling Good - from I Put a Spell on You, 1965

forgottenness-deactivated201512

travellinglight

forgottenness

They’re seated. They’re looking at the camera. They are captioned, from left to right: J. Henric, J.-J. Goux, Ph. Sollers, J. Kristeva, M.-Th. Réveillé, P. Guyotat, C. Devade, and M. Devade.

There’s no photo credit. They’re sitting around a table. It’s an ordinary table, made of wood, perhaps, or plastic, it could even be a marble table on metal legs, but nothing could be less germane to my purpose than to give an exhaustive description of it. The table is a table that is large enough to seat the above-mentioned individuals and it’s in a café. Or appears to be. Let’s suppose, for the moment, that it’s in a café. The eight people who appear in the photo, who are posing for the photo, are fanned out around one side of the table in a crescent or a kind of opened-out horseshoe, so that each of them can be seen clearly and completely. In other words, no one is facing away from the camera. In front of them, or rather between them and the photographer (and this is slightly strange), there are three plants—a rhododendron, a ficus, and an everlasting—rising from a planter, which may serve, but this is speculation, as a barrier between two distinct sections of the café.

~ “Labyrinth,” Roberto Bolaño, The New Yorker, January 23, 2012

proustitute

The imperfect is our paradise. Note that, in this bitterness, delight, since the imperfect is so hot in us, lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.

Wallace Stevens, from “The Poems of Our Climate” (via proustitute)

“Advertisement” written and designed by J.G. Ballard, Ambit no. 33, 1967 (via)

I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.

I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present.

I believe in the derangement of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.

I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Durer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet.

I believe in the impossibility of existence, in the humour of mountains, in the absurdity of electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic.

I believe in the next five minutes.

J.G. Ballard, ‘What I Believe’: Interzone, #8, Summer 1984. A prose poem, originally published in French in Science Fiction #1 (ed. Daniel Riche) in January 1984.

#J.G. Ballard

chromaticities

travellinglight

chromaticities

J.G. BALLARD. Hand-edited typewritten manuscript of Crash

notbruan

travellinglight

"Must I go on living here then, among the objects we both had touched, in the air she had breathed? In the name of what? In the hope of her return? I hoped for nothing. And yet I lived in expectation. Since she had gone, that was all that remained. I did not know what achievements, what mockery, even what tortures still awaited me. I knew nothing, and I persisted in the faith that the time of cruel miracles was not past.” ― Stanisław Lem

allyouneedisprozac-deactivated2

aquariumdrunkard

travellinglight

aquariumdrunkard

Lou and Nico

Poets MacNeice, Hughes, Eliot, Auden and Spender at the Faber cocktail party, 23 June 1963. Photograph: Mark Gerson and Faber Archive

“We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.” ― T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

"No, I won't tread on you. That is not what you are. It is only what was left of what I had thought you were. I see another person, I see you as a person whom I never saw before. The man I saw before, he was only a projection- I see that now - of something that I wanted - no, not wanted - something that I aspired to - something that I desperately wanted to exist. It must happen somewhere-but what, and where is it?"

― T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party