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Death blowing bubbles 🫧🫧🫧

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Writing hut built by author Henry Williamson in Georgeham, North Devon, UK

Henry Williamson built his writing hut in 1929 from oak and elm with slate roof tiles with a brick fireplace. Williamson spent up to 15 hours a day working on his acclaimed natural history and social history novels.

Williamson described the hut in an interview from 1969: 

“I wrote a book about an otter and it won a prize of a £100. I bought a 2-acre field on a hill with it. Later I built an oak hut, rather solid, and it still stands today. I go there and I write. It’s a most lovely place — the trees are very high I planted them about 40 years ago.”

Tarka the Otter, published in 1928, brought the Devon countryside to life through the eyes of an otter.

Submitted by Beth Evans / @picturestring

More info: studioandhut.com

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King Tutankhamun’s sandals (gold and leather). Egyptian Museum, Cairo.

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Frida Kahlo trabajando, 1951 foto por Gisèle Freund

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😐

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Stev’nn Hall

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It is truly a strange thing when a steam pipe bursts under an abandoned building in the dead of winter, but that’s exactly what happened under the Clinic Building at Greystone Park State Hospital in 2007, a month before the building was unceremoniously knocked down.  The steam congregated near the ceiling of the abandoned asylum infirmary, condensing on the pipes and dripping down in regular patterns - and creating these ice stalagmites.  An hour after taking this photograph, demolition workers came into the building and chased us through the tunnels; we had to hide in an attic in 0 degree weather for hours while cops searched for us.  The next time I drove out there, there was no trace that a building had ever stood in this spot.

Prints available here.

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1960

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Lavender and flax seed eye pillows, because... Damn girl, just because.

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Never getting tired of new color palettes or muddy roads. Particularly, mud-squelched ankles.

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I basically live on the road now and don't mind it a bit. #audiobooksfordays

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Books, in ways that are different to visual art, to music, to radio, to love even, force us to walk through another’s thoughts, one word at a time, over hours and days. We share our minds for that time with the writer’s. There is a slowness, a forced reflection required by the medium that is unique. Books recreate someone else’s thoughts inside our own minds, and maybe it is this one-to-one mapping of someone else’s words, on their own, without external stimuli, that give books their power. Books force us to let someone else’s thoughts inhabit our minds completely. Books are not just transferrers of knowledge and emotion, but a special kind of tool that flattens one self into another, that enable the trying-on of foreign ideas and emotions.

Why can’t we read anymore? — Medium (via infoneer-pulse)