"We will love like dogwood.
Kiss like cranes.
Die like moths.
I promise."

- Larissa Shmailo, “Spring Vow”  (via petrichour)

(via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

(via artpropelled)

L.Tuplin - 2014

L.Tuplin - 2014

(via thaug59)

afootballreport:

The Oldest Footballer in England

Meet Dickie Borthwick. He’s approaching 79, and still plays football.

Beyond the immediate desire to want to kick around with him, this short film by Alex Knowles & James Callum focuses on a man who has been fortunate enough to share his whole life with the game. They made the film with the intent to dispel the myth that ‘old people are past it’ and instead introduce us to inspirational people with invaluable insight, exceptional passion, a never-ending supply of wonderful stories and a thirst for life that refuses to fade.

Mr. Borthwick notes that "football brings a lot of friends into your life… I’m there with young people all the time, playing football! At my age! What more can I ask for?" Cheers, Dickie, for reminding us to appreciate what we all have at our feet.

Read More

L.Tuplin - 2014

L.Tuplin - 2014

L.Tuplin - 2014

L.Tuplin - 2014

likeafieldmouse:

The First Photograph of a Human Being

"This photograph of Boulevard du Temple in Paris was made in 1838 by Louis Daguerre, the brilliant guy who invented the daguerreotype process of photography.

Aside from its distinction of being a super early photograph, it’s also the first photograph to ever include a human being.

Because the image required an exposure time of over ten minutes, all the people, carriages, and other moving things disappear from the scene. However, in the bottom left hand corner is a man who just so happened to stay somewhat still during the shot — he was having his shoes shined.”

Tagged with:

art

history

favorite

L.Tuplin - 2014

L.Tuplin - 2014

thaug59:

 

thaug59:

 

(via thaug59)

mpdrolet:




South Side, Chicago
David Schalliol

mpdrolet:

South Side, Chicago

David Schalliol

L.Tuplin - 2014

L.Tuplin - 2014

untitled trails

thisbiscuit:

.
believe in the tundra,
the cold concrete effigy,
of what weather can be and where
rain must fall to feel vatted and stolid,
quizzically tipped
into a scribbled dress
of flowing white cotton
left out at night
to talk around chalk and drains

.

Tagged with:

poetry

draft

guernicamag:


I disturbed a nest of baby rabbits under the catmint as I hacked back the dead sprawl. Something moved under my loppers. Five nestlings, each the size of a small teacup, curled into each other, wrapped in a tender blanket of down shed from their mother. Eyes closed, mewling and wriggling in my grasp. I wanted to protect them, and I wanted to kill them.
Baby rabbits, or kits, as they are known, have no smell, apparently so predators don’t detect them. Now they would smell of me. Their mother would reject them because of their new sweaty-hand-and-dank-garden-glove scent. I felt for this sweet brood, but turned instead to my garden. This is where I coaxed blue campanula to come back after winter, and tried to keep order among the reckless bee balm and catmint. A mother rabbit, a doe, can birth six litters in a season. I didn’t want them ransacking my garden, nibbling my asters to stubs, disrupting the line of creeping phlox by chewing them ragged. Nor did I want my dog to find sport in them, playing a macabre game with a score tallied in limp bodies. I gave the brood to our neighbors, who passed them along the block to Illinois Bob, an obsessive collector of rodents and other beasts. Motherless, those thumpers died, but at least not on my watch.
Later, in summer, I found a lone kit, wet from my hound’s mouth, lying damaged on the lawn, roaring silently. His mouth stretched wide, tiny see-through teeth vibrating. He made me think of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” the image that stares out from dorm room posters and kitchen towels and mouse pads, reminding us that human distress can spiral out for eternity. It’s called “Skrik” in Danish, capturing the moment in a life when raw pain prevails.
I filmed my tiny screamer on my phone, thinking it might be useful for some later project, as a record of anguish. I filmed as he ran out of shriek, until his mouth barely quivered ajar. He no longer had strength to raise his head from the grass. His crying slowly lost its desperation, trailing into a soundless mew. Did he cry for his mother? Was she hiding under the wild mess of golden rod and dock by the garage, or watching from a burrow beneath the deck? I knelt beside him, a surrogate parent offering comfort by being present. As if a parent’s presence alone could be enough. A parent of any species. In this case, a human mother with a camera, recording his torment. Watching him, I felt both invested in his suffering and detached. Sympathy and cool voyeurism coiled together. I shivered.

Unraveling by Toni Nealie - Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics
Read this breathtaking essay by Toni Nealie, an interview with debut novelist Scott Cheshire, and more in our new issue, here.
Feature image by James Casebere, Landscape with Houses (Dutchess County, NY #8), 2010, digital chromogenic print.

guernicamag:

I disturbed a nest of baby rabbits under the catmint as I hacked back the dead sprawl. Something moved under my loppers. Five nestlings, each the size of a small teacup, curled into each other, wrapped in a tender blanket of down shed from their mother. Eyes closed, mewling and wriggling in my grasp. I wanted to protect them, and I wanted to kill them.

Baby rabbits, or kits, as they are known, have no smell, apparently so predators don’t detect them. Now they would smell of me. Their mother would reject them because of their new sweaty-hand-and-dank-garden-glove scent. I felt for this sweet brood, but turned instead to my garden. This is where I coaxed blue campanula to come back after winter, and tried to keep order among the reckless bee balm and catmint. A mother rabbit, a doe, can birth six litters in a season. I didn’t want them ransacking my garden, nibbling my asters to stubs, disrupting the line of creeping phlox by chewing them ragged. Nor did I want my dog to find sport in them, playing a macabre game with a score tallied in limp bodies. I gave the brood to our neighbors, who passed them along the block to Illinois Bob, an obsessive collector of rodents and other beasts. Motherless, those thumpers died, but at least not on my watch.

Later, in summer, I found a lone kit, wet from my hound’s mouth, lying damaged on the lawn, roaring silently. His mouth stretched wide, tiny see-through teeth vibrating. He made me think of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” the image that stares out from dorm room posters and kitchen towels and mouse pads, reminding us that human distress can spiral out for eternity. It’s called “Skrik” in Danish, capturing the moment in a life when raw pain prevails.

I filmed my tiny screamer on my phone, thinking it might be useful for some later project, as a record of anguish. I filmed as he ran out of shriek, until his mouth barely quivered ajar. He no longer had strength to raise his head from the grass. His crying slowly lost its desperation, trailing into a soundless mew. Did he cry for his mother? Was she hiding under the wild mess of golden rod and dock by the garage, or watching from a burrow beneath the deck? I knelt beside him, a surrogate parent offering comfort by being present. As if a parent’s presence alone could be enough. A parent of any species. In this case, a human mother with a camera, recording his torment. Watching him, I felt both invested in his suffering and detached. Sympathy and cool voyeurism coiled together. I shivered.

Unraveling by Toni Nealie - Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics

Read this breathtaking essay by Toni Nealie, an interview with debut novelist Scott Cheshire, and more in our new issue, here.

Feature image by James CasebereLandscape with Houses (Dutchess County, NY #8), 2010, digital chromogenic print.

mgoldst:

228

mgoldst:

228

(via lafilleblanc)

Tagged with:

artists on tumblr