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There is nothing mysterious or natural about authority. It is formed, irradiated, disseminated; it is instrumental, it is persuasive; it has status, it establishes canons of taste and value; it is virtually indistinguishable from certain ideas it signifies as true, and from traditions, perceptions, and judgments it forms, transmits, reproduces. Above all, authority can, indeed must, be analyzed.

Orientalism by Edward Said

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“That’s why high school, or a crappy job, or any other restrictive circumstance can be dangerous: They make dreams too painful to bear. To avoid longing, we hunker down, wait, and resolve to just survive. Great art becomes a reminder of the art you want to be making, and of the gigantic world outside of your small, seemingly inescapable one. We hide from great things because they inspire us, and in this state, inspiration hurts.”

— One of the best articles I’ve ever read. Rookie Mag. By Spencer Tweedy. (via wildyork)

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“In reading a novel, any novel, we have to know perfectly well that the whole thing is nonsense, and then, while reading, believe every word of it. Finally, when we’re done with it, we may find – if it’s a good novel – that we’re a bit different from what we were before we read it, that we have changed a little, as if by having met a new face, crossed a street we never crossed before. But it’s very hard to say just what we learned, how we were changed.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, foreword to The Left Hand of Darkness (1969)

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James Baldwin

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Alma Thomas (22 September 1891 – 24 February 1978) 

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mattivarga

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Cover by Danny Chung of “Happy Together” by The Turtles in Happy Together (1997) dir. Wong Kar-wai

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Augusto Giacometti (1877-1947, Swiss) ~  May Morning, 1910

[Source: artvee.com]

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Cressida Campbell, Nasturtiums, 2014, woodblock print

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The lighthouse as an image of loneliness has its limits. For as we stand on the shore of this ocean, the crusted snow on the hills and grass dispersed beneath it, that tower seems a place where people gather some vision of themselves: the marriage of rock to water, of wave to snail washed up on shore. We're small, and waving to the lobster boat — which could be miles away or close enough to raise our vocies to — makes us wish our journeys took us further, past witness, to a scene where we belonged. A man in blue pulls up his net, tiny fish swim free of it. And the man pulling anchor, whose strength pulls him further from the shore, pays tribute to our rootlessness. As he shouts to start the engine up, to take his course, he leaves us in the distance, the repeated ritual of his wake. And like the water stirred against the lighthouse wall, breaking up, wave after wave, we forget ourselves. Learn our place.

Painting: Edward Hopper, Pemaquid Light, 1929 Poem: Ira Sadoff, "February: Pemaquid Point"

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Tiles of Lisbon 

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Spyros Vassiliou (Greek, 1902-1984), After dinner at Kostis ,1972. Oil and collage on canvas, 146 x 114.5 cm

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Mei Mei in the Fields

photo cjmn

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Cândido Portinari (Brazilian 1903-1962), Navio negreiro [Slave Ship], 1950. Oil on canvas, 73.3 x 60 cm.

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Antonio Cazorla "Fresas" 2016 oil on canvas 40x40 cm.

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Gustav Klimt

Beech Grove I (1902)