miscfisc

Judith Wright (Australia 1945 - )

A Continuing Fable [2], acrylic on japanese paper, 100 x 100cm 2008
Desire [16], acrylic and wax on japanese paper, 300 x 300cm, 2009
Silent Memories II, colour aquatint, 80 x 60cm, 1994

— 6 days ago
#Judith Wright 
Arcangelo Ianelli (Brazil 1922 - 2009)
Untitled, oil on canvas, 99 x 80cm, 1981

Arcangelo Ianelli (Brazil 1922 - 2009)

Untitled, oil on canvas, 99 x 80cm, 1981

(Source: blastedheath)

— 6 days ago with 101 notes
#Arcangelo Ianelli 
"The unreal is more powerful than the real. Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because it’s only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on. If you can change the way people think, the way they see themselves, the way they see the world—you can change the way people live their lives. That’s the only lasting thing you can create."
Chuck Palahniuk, from Choke

(Source: hellanne, via apoetreflects)

— 1 week ago with 5244 notes
#Chuck Palahniuk  #Choke  #entropic  #antientropic 
"Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth."
Gabriel García Márquez, from One Hundred Years of Solitude (via the-final-sentence)
— 1 week ago with 68 notes
#Gabriel Garcia Márquez  #One Hundred Years of Solitude  #tfs 
"… And that wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end."
Gabriel García Márquez, from One Hundred Years of Solitude 

(Source: themoonisgreen, via fuckyeahexistentialism)

— 1 week ago with 945 notes
#Gabriel Garcia Márquez  #One Hundred Years of Solitude 
theparisreview:


Circulation folder and slip stamped DISCARDED, after one measly entry on May 5, 1969. Found in a ridiculously well-preserved copy of Writers at Work: The Paris Review Interviews, Third Series. Introduced by Alfred Kazin, published in 1967 by The Paris Review—includes interviews with Jean Cocteau, Evelyn Waugh, Saul Bellow, Arthur Miller, Norman Mailer, Allen Ginsberg, etc.

A great find by sashawantsmore.

theparisreview:

Circulation folder and slip stamped DISCARDED, after one measly entry on May 5, 1969. Found in a ridiculously well-preserved copy of Writers at Work: The Paris Review Interviews, Third Series. Introduced by Alfred Kazin, published in 1967 by The Paris Review—includes interviews with Jean Cocteau, Evelyn Waugh, Saul Bellow, Arthur Miller, Norman Mailer, Allen Ginsberg, etc.

A great find by sashawantsmore.

— 1 week ago with 270 notes
"The problem, often not discovered until late in life, is that when you look for things like love, meaning, motivation, it implies they are sitting behind a tree or under a rock. The most successful people recognize, that in life they create their own love, they manufacture their own meaning, they generate their own motivation.

For me, I am driven by two main philosophies, know more today about the world than I knew yesterday. And along the way, lessen the suffering of others. You’d be surprised how far that gets you."
Neil deGrasse Tyson, during his Reddit AMA (March 01, 2012)

(Source: crookedindifference)

— 1 week ago with 9975 notes
#Neil deGrasse Tyson 

theparisreview:

“Jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.” The secret of life and love, according to Ray Bradbury. (via)

— 1 week ago with 1102 notes
#Ray Bradbury  #life and love  #owning and doing  #nowness 
"And then often it is only half things I remember, half things, beginnings of things."
Harold Pinter, Silence (via robcam-wfu)

(via symmetryeal)

— 1 week ago with 139 notes
#Harold Pinter  #Silence  #half things  #beginnings of things 

archivesofamericanart:

PAUL CUMMINGS: Where is the accent in your name?

SOL LeWITT: It’s the last syllable - LeWITT. [Emphasis on “Witt”]

MR. CUMMINGS: It is? People argue about that all the time.

MR. LeWITT: It’s not a very interesting argument

- Oral history interview with Sol LeWitt, 1974 July 15. 

(Source: aaa.si.edu)

— 1 week ago with 53 notes
#Sol LeWitt 

converginglinesbma:

Exactly 49 years ago yesterday, Sol LeWitt sent Eva Hesse an extraordinary 5-page letter in which he famously urged:

“Just stop thinking, worrying, looking over your shoulder wondering, doubting, fearing, hurting, hoping for some easy way out, struggling, grasping, confusing, itching, scratching, mumbling, bumbling, grumbling, humbling, stumbling, numbling, rumbling, gambling, tumbling, scumbling, scrambling, hitching, hatching, bitching, moaning, groaning, honing, boning, horse-shitting, hair-splitting, nit-picking, piss-trickling, nose sticking, ass-gouging, eyeball-poking, finger-pointing, alleyway-sneaking, long waiting, small stepping, evil-eyeing, back-scratching, searching, perching, besmirching, grinding, grinding, grinding away at yourself. Stop it and just DO!”

If you’re in Austin, make sure to stop by Converging Lines before it closes May 18 to see the letter in its entirety!

— 1 week ago with 52 notes
#Eva Hesse  #Sol LeWitt  #DO 
In Praise of Darkness

Old age (the name that others give it)
can be the time of our greatest bliss.
The animal has died or almost died.
The man and his spirit remain.
I live among vague, luminous shapes
that are not darkness yet.
Buenos Aires,
whose edges disintegrated
into the endless plain, has gone back to being the Recoleta, the Retiro,
the nondescript streets of the Once,
and the rickety old houses
we still call the South.
In my life there were always too many things.
Democritus of Abdera plucked out his eyes in order to think:
Time has been my Democritus.
This penumbra is slow and does not pain me;
it flows down a gentle slope,
resembling eternity.
My friends have no faces,
women are what they were so many years ago,
these corners could be other corners,
there are no letters on the pages of books.
All this should frighten me,
but it is a sweetness, a return.
Of the generations of texts on earth
I will have read only a few–
the ones that I keep reading in my memory,
reading and transforming.
From South, East, West, and North
the paths converge that have led me
to my secret center.
Those paths were echoes and footsteps,
women, men, death-throes, resurrections,
days and nights,
dreams and half-wakeful dreams,
every inmost moment of yesterday
and all the yesterdays of the world,
the Dane’s staunch sword and the Persian’s moon,
the acts of the dead,
shared love, and words,
Emerson and snow, so many things.
Now I can forget them. I reach my center,
my algebra and my key,
my mirror.
Soon I will know who I am.

-  Jorge Luis Borges (translation by Hoyt Rogers)

— 1 week ago with 2 notes
#In Praise of Darkness  #Jorge Luis Borges  #poetry