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O SANGUE (1989)

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WE ARE THE PALESTINIAN PEOPLE (NEWSREEL #65) (1973)

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We have a generation of writers who have watched more movies, television, and footage of human life than they have experienced of that life firsthand. Even their understanding and experience of their own inner lives originates in skits, memes, and video essays. They have no philosophers or prophets. They have YouTubers and influencers, and in this shallow, highly processed and highly mediated experience of consciousness, there is no thought. Merely the telepathic beaming of image from the screen to the interior of the person’s mind.

—Brandon Taylor, against casting tape fiction

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Poésie

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Die Sinnlichkeit.c.1891. Oil on Canvas. 50.5 x 36.3 cm.

Art by Franz von Stuck.(1863-1928).

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David Shrigley - painting - “ I no longer wish to be part of the circus “

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Despair

It's becoming increasingly difficult to breathe, nearly impossible to sleep, and a true challenge to think clearly. Every time I attempt to improve myself, to grant myself the greatness I yearn for in my artistry, it feels as though it brings out the very worst in me. I often plunge into the depths of despair. Perhaps artistic pursuits were never meant to be my escape, but rather a stark reminder of my own struggles.

Perhaps I never allowed my despair to unveil itself, to be truly seen or heard. Yet today is one of those haunting days when it surges forth, a desperate scream yearning to break free and a heart-wrenching cry demanding to be wept.

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Endymion (George Frederic Watts, 1872)

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Detail from the painting Mary Magdalene (1860), by Julius Hübner.

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Alexander Rothaug (1870-1946), “Magic Lake” (c. 1912), oil on canvas, 52 x 69 cm.

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The Apparition (1876) by Gustave Moreau

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The gnowing sameness of the days

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Maria Yakunchikova - Allée d'arbres (1898)

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I broke off a branch from love buried the dead in the earth now look my garden has blossomed

it is not possible to kill love

if you bury her in the earth she grows back if you throw her in the air she leafs with wings if into the water she flashes with gill if into the night she shines

so I wished to bury her in my heart but the heart became a home for my love my heart opened its heart doors and rang its heart walls with song my heart danced on tiptoe

so I buried my love in my head and the people asked why is my head the shape of a flower and why do my eyes shine like two stars and why are my lips redder than dawn I grasped love so as to smash it up but supple it was and braided my hands and people ask my hands tied by love whose captive am I

Halina Poświatowska

bird of my heart don't cry I'll feed you the seed of love

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A Certain Weariness by Pablo Neruda, tr. Alastair Reid

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Yuko Nasaka travail 1963