mnic313:

And I don’t know,
don’t know,
if we belong together or apart,
except that my soul lingers over the skin of you
and I wonder if I’m ruining all we had,
and had not […]

Anne Sexton, from Waking Alone

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)

Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.
— W. B. Yeats, from “The Two Trees” (via the-final-sentence)

luzfosca:

David Kawabata

"Jump", 2009

matthiasheiderich:

Matthias Heiderich, 2011.

via

anthropogenics:

MATTHIAS HEIDERICH

blastedheath:

Tomory Dodge (American, b. 1974), Houses with Tree, 2002. Oil on canvas, 26 3/4 x 35 7/8 in.

Time spent amongst trees is never wasted time
— Katrina Mayer (via ohdreaming)

(Source: willowbambi)

exasperated-viewer-on-air:

Roger Ackling - Voewood, 2010

sunlight on wood (the artist has focused sunlight through a magnifying glass burning lines of tiny dots onto found and rescued materials)

39.5 x 29.5 x 10.5 cm

like paper, 2, 3

asfaltics:

image
image

1-10-3 Otsuka, Bunkyo-ku, Tokyo (*), 7 August 2014

Many empty/abandoned houses in Tokyo — two across from me out in Oyamadai, and here. People die or enter care, and elsewhere-sons-and-daughters do nothing with the asset. During today’s walk — 散歩 — I noticed what appeared to be a real estate guy, taking notes of an under-maintained (empty? soon to be empty?) house. Presume a lot of that is going on, has always gone on.
 

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
— Derek Walcott (via largerloves)
In the brush doing what it’s doing, it will stumble on what one couldn’t do by oneself.
— ROBERT MOTHERWELL (via workman)

theparisreview:

Wild

When they were wild
When they were not yet human
When they could have been anything,
I was on the other side ready with milk to lure them,
And their father, too, the name like a net in his hands.

Louise Erdrich. Art: Theodor Kittelsen.

theparisreview:

“I particularly enjoy the random poetry of these books and catalogs, and their listings and names often make their way into my titles.”

Art by Steve Greene, who uses pages from supply catalogs in his collages.

The dynamic principle of fantasy is play, a characteristic also of the child, and as such it appears inconsistent with the principle of serious work. But without this playing with fantasy no creative work has ever yet come to birth. The debt we owe to the play of imagination is incalculable. It is therefore short-sighted to treat fantasy, on account of its risky or unacceptable nature, as a thing of little worth. It must not be forgotten that it is just in the imagination that a man’s highest value may lie.
— Carl Gustav Jung (via drakontomalloi)