Stream of Consciousness

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Frida Kahlo’s Wardrobe
Artists: Ishiuchi Miyako (Courtesy Michael Hoppen Gallery) // Source: L’Oeil de la Photographie

(Source: loeildelaphotographie.com, via cocteautwin-deactivated20150711)

Posted 3 years ago with 11,290 notes

The Great Carina Nebula

We have a coffee table book at home called Cosmos which is just page after page of sumptuous photos like this. What a beautiful universe we live in, huh?

(via oiseauxnoirs-deactivated2012050)

Posted 4 years ago with 21 notes

Posted 4 years ago with 0 notes

Some of my favourite photos that I took in Berlin over the summer. Finally got this film (and others that I’d completely forgotten about from around two years ago) developed, resulting in a few nostalgic moments and fond remembrances. The quality of the scans is not what I would like it to be but you can’t have it all ways.

Posted 4 years ago with 3 notes

So today has been quite an exciting day so far because I got an email this morning from my tutor asking me for an electronic copy of the essay I submitted yesterday so that he could send it to the photographer I wrote it on (whom he knows personally). And the photographer sent an email back saying he liked it. And now it might get published.

Posted 5 years ago with 2 notes

farewell-kingdom:

Nina Katchadourian - Sorted Books
“I suddenly recalled a moment in the university library when, looking for a book, I had turned my head sideways as I walked down the stacks and thought how spectacular it would be if all the titles formed an accidental sentence when read one after the other in a long chain. Standing amidst the bookshelves in Half Moon Bay, my next move was simply to make this imaginary accident real. I spent days shifting and arranging books, composing them so that their titles formed short sentences. The exercise was intimate, like a form of portraiture, and it felt important that the books I selected should function as a cross section of the larger collection.”

(via feravertos-deactivated20161019)

Posted 5 years ago with 11,522 notes

Love has gone away. And there’s no-one here now. And there’s nothing left to say. But, oh, how I miss him, baby. Oh, baby, come on and slip away.

Posted 5 years ago with 1 note

Poem in October

It was my thirtieth year to heaven

Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood

And the mussel pooled and the heron

Priested shore

The morning beckon

With water praying and call of seagull and rook

And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall

Myself to set foot

That second

In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-

Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name

Above the farms and the white horses

And I rose

In rainy autumn

And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.

High tide and the heron dived when I took the road

Over the border

And the gates

Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling

Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling

Blackbirds and the sun of October

Summery

On the hill’s shoulder,

Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly

Come in the morning where I wandered and listened

To the rain wringing

Wind blow cold

In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour

And over the sea wet church the size of a snail

With its horns through mist and the castle

Brown as owls

But all the gardens

Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales

Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.

There could I marvel

My birthday

Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country

And down the other air and the blue altered sky

Streamed again a wonder of summer

With apples

Pears and red currants

And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s

Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother

Through the parables

Of sun light

And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy

That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.

These were the woods the river and sea

Where a boy

In the listening

Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy

To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.

And the mystery

Sang alive

Still in the water and singingbirds.

And there could I marvel my birthday

Away but the weather turned around. And the true

Joy of the long dead child sang burning

In the sun.

It was my thirtieth

Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon

Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.

O may my heart’s truth

Still be sung

On this high hill in a year’s turning.

- By Dylan Thomas

Posted 5 years ago with 3 notes

Joan Eardley, Salmon Nets and Sea, 1960

Because I was at the Hunterian in Glasgow earlier this month and they had some Joan Eardley and I love Joan Eardley so here’s some Joan Eardley.

Posted 5 years ago with 1 note

At the age of 21, I am officially going grey. More and more wiry white hairs keep appearing along my crown. If I end up with half a head of them any time soon, my only hope is that I can pull it off with style à la Daphne Guinness.

Posted 5 years ago with 2 notes

microscopicexpressionism:

You Wish Your Neurons Were This Pretty
When Greg Dunn finished his Ph.D. in neuroscience at Penn in 2011, he bought himself a sensory deprivation tank as a graduation present. The gift marked a major life transition, from the world of science to a life of meditation and art.
Now a full-time artist living in Philadelphia, Dunn says he was inspired in his grad-student days by the spare beauty of neurons treated with certain stains. The Golgi stain, for example, will turn one or two neurons black against a golden background. ”It has this Zen quality to it that really appealed to me,” Dunn said.

(via humoresques-deactivated20140602)

Posted 5 years ago with 7,256 notes