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Janaina Medeiros

oozey mess

Kiana Khansmith
we're not kids anymore.
Game of Thrones Daily
todays bird
noise dept.

Love Begins
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

★
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

#extradirty

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
sheepfilms
NASA
will byers stan first human second
almost home

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JBB: An Artblog!

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@vito
Abraham Attah in Beasts of no Nation (2015), dir. Cary Fukunaga
bello grazie vi
a l'unico Stè della mia H
Pessoa
Piazza Abbiategrasso/chiesa rossa MM2
“Florida in the summer is a slow hot drowning.” That’s one way Lauren Groff describes the state in her new collection of short stories. In another part of the book, she calls Florida “a damp, dense tangle. An Eden of dangerous things.” Why Florida? “I’ve lived here for 12 years and it’s still so alien and fecund and steamy and strange to me,” she says. “Reptilian, dangerous, teeming — I mean, there are so many things that you could call Florida.” Check out her excellent conversation with our own Ari Shapiro here – and find Jason Sheehan’s review here.
– Petra
Groucho Marx interviews Rod Serling
“Those dark sounds are the mystery, the roots that cling to the mire that we all know, that we all ignore, but from which comes the very substance of art. ‘Dark sounds’ said the man of the Spanish people, agreeing with Goethe, who in speaking of Paganini hit on a definition of the duende: ‘A mysterious force that everyone feels and no philosopher has explained.’ So, then, the duende is a force not a labour, a struggle not a thought. I heard an old maestro of the guitar say: ‘The duende is not in the throat: the duende surges up, inside, from the soles of the feet.’ Meaning, it’s not a question of skill, but of a style that’s truly alive: meaning, it’s in the veins: meaning, it’s of the most ancient culture of immediate creation. This ‘mysterious force that everyone feels and no philosopher has explained’ is, in sum, the spirit of the earth, the same duende that scorched Nietzche’s heart as he searched for its outer form on the Rialto Bridge and in Bizet’s music, without finding it, and without seeing that the duende he pursued had leapt from the Greek mysteries to the dancers of Cadiz and the headless Dionysiac scream of Silverio’s siguiriya.”
— Federico García Lorca, Theory and Play of the Duende (trans. A. S. Kline)