mysterious, enchanting
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Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, "Grow, grow." - The Talmud |
the book of lists (a preview)
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| the meadow behind my house, by kat ziegler |
The voice of forest water in the night, a woman's laughter in the dark, the clean, hard rattle of raked gravel, the cricketing stitch of midday in hot meadows, the delicate web of children's voices in bright air - these things will never change. The glitter of sunlight on roughened water, the glory of the stars, the innocence of morning, the smell of the sea in harbors, the feathery blur and smoky buddings of young boughs, and something there that comes and goes and never can be captured, the thorn of spring, the sharp and tongueless cry - these things will always be the same.
Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again, 1940
Still less can the sculptor depict the love-light in a person's eyes, with their black or blue colouring; the colour of blond hair; the gleam of weapons; the darkness of night; a tempest at sea; thunder and lightning; a city in conflagration; or the break of rosy dawn with its rays of gold and red.
Baldassarre Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier, 1528
It is the hour of the mallow and the poppy, of jasmine and flowering gorse, of the thistle and the passion flower, of tiny strawberries starring the moss at the foot of the pine trees, of the violet and the rambling rose, of acacia and eucalyptus honeying the air. In our meadow we also have: a number of small grey foxes, hedgehogs curling in the brambles, the lizard and the grass snake, a flock of shrieking parrots, their long emerald tails slicing through the air, and my dog Charlie, buried under a pomegranate tree.
girlontape, 2013
kat and stef, sailing the man sea and trying to understand....
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| ph: kat ziegler |
"casual sex is like recreational heroin - it doesn't stay recreational for long...."
photography according to my cousin paolo
"Taking a picture is holding your breath to capture fleeting reality: a physical and intellectual joy."
"Fotografiar es retener el respiro para captar la realidad fugaz: un deleite fisico e intelectual."
rumble
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| maitena a sus 14 años, frente al asilo de ancianos cerca de la iglesia del pilar en la recoleta, donde ahora està el design center ph: marcelo iaccarino
Acabo de leer un libro impresionante.
En este libro vive una prosa muscular y cinematica que te lleva cual maquina del tiempo hacia una Buenos Aires que ya no existe mas, en donde una chica rebelde se mide con una familia demencial en una sociedad arrasada por fuerzas siniestras.
En este libro hay lucha, hay garra, hay ternura y maldad, encanto y pavor, hay humor negro, negrisimo, y droga y sexo y algo de rocanrol, y las huellas de un patito estirandose hacia la vida para dibujar el cisne que serà... es un autorretrato de la artista adolescente... es RUMBLE, de Maitena Burundarena.
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| pasaje seaver, posadas casi cerrito - fue demolido para hacer la avenida 9 de julio |
stef & stripes part 2
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| shoes: london ankle bracelet: kabul lingerie: rome body: landed on planet earth 47 years ago |
a orillas del lago (con la balada de laika y theo, por martina)
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a day at the lake, plus the ballad of Laika and her new brother Theo by Martina |
"Therefore to this dog will I render praise and favour"
Un perrito ha muerto. Se llamaba Charlie, autrement dit Sir Charles o le Baron de Charlus por su infinito aplomb y su elegancia al vestir, en los dias de lluvia, su impermeable beige con estampado simil burberry.
Caballero con las hembras y valiente a la hora de correr a los demas machos, fueran ellos dogos o pits, ovejeros o caniches, Charlie llevaba las cicatrices y los dientes rotos del viejo guerrero.
Siempre discreto a la hora de manifestar sus afectos, solo una vez, hacia el final de su vida, me dio un beso en la mejilla: quede emocionadisima.
Mi amigo Charlie se muriò en mis brazos, y de eso solo puedo decir, que la muerte debe ser muy parecida al nacimiento: hay intimidad y lucha, sangre, gritos, miedo, amor, y el traspaso de un alma.
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| retrato de Charlie por Martina, de 9 años |
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| Charlie en su ultimo dia |
mine eye hath play'd the painter
It is the first mild day of March.
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
--It is the hour of feeling.
William Wordsworth
the god of small things
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| ph: Muzaffar Salman / Reuters "a Free Syrian Army fighter feeds a stray cat in Aleppo" "Taking a photo is actually an attempt to capture the feeling a specific scene creates so that when you see that image you can recall the feeling and share it with your close ones. As such, photography is about feelings, rather than images." -Muzaffar Salman super interesting interview with the photographer here |
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