greenegg
greenegg
greenegg
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greenegg · 3 hours ago
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It’s Been A Long Time” Scott Bergey
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greenegg · 17 days ago
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Richard Tuschman.
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greenegg · 3 months ago
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Yorgos Mavroupoulos.
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greenegg · 3 months ago
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Marie Muravski - La stanza
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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Louise Bourgeois, Le feu dans la grille, (engraving, watercolor, and graphite on paper), 2006 [Centre Pompidou, Paris. © The Easton Foundation / Adagp, Paris. Photo: Audrey Laurans/Centre Pompidou]
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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Louise Bourgeois, Les Mimosas d'Abord, (engraving, watercolor, gouache and colored pencil on paper), 2008 [Centre Pompidou, Paris. © The Easton Foundation / Adagp, Paris. Photo: Audrey Laurans/Centre Pompidou]
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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Edward Hopper
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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oana stoian
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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Joaquín Sorolla (Spanish, 1863-1923). "Academic life study", c.1887. Museo de Bellas Artes de San Pio V, Spain. oil on linen
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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By Eva Abeling
www.instagram.com/eva_abe
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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-Handkerchief Point-
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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yana koreyvo
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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The snow outside - Kaoru Yamada 
Japanese , b. 1975 -
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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Léon Ferrari, 2004 - Poem by André Breton embossed in braille on a photograph
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greenegg · 4 months ago
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Naïve
Tim Seibles
I love you but I don’t know you —Mennonite Woman
When I was seven, I walked home with Dereck DeLarge, my arm
slung over his skinny shoulders, after-school sun buffing our lunch boxes.
So easy, that gesture, so light— the kind of love that lands like a leaf.
It was 1963. We were two black boys
whose snaggle-toothed grins held a thousand giggles.
Remember? Remember wanting to play
every minute, as if that was why we were born?
Those hands that bring us shouting into this life
must open like a fanfare of big band horns.
Though this world is nothing
like where we’d been, we come anyway, astonished
as if to Mardi Gras in full swing. There must be a time
when a child’s heart builds a chocolate sunflower
while katydids burnish the day with their busy wings.
This itching fury that holds me now—this knowing
the early welcome that once lived inside me
was somehow sent away: how I talk myself back
into all the regular disguises but still walk these streets
believing in the weather of the unruined heart.
My friends, with crow’s feet edging their eyes,
keep looking for a kinder city, though they don’t
want to seem naïve. When was the last time
you wrapped your arm around someone’s shoulder
and walked him home?
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