nevver:

Christian Bök & Micah Lexier

likeafieldmouse:

Jay DeFeo - The Rose (1958-69)

“The story of Jay DeFeo and The Rose is both a cautionary tale of obsession and an inspiring tale of determination and belief. She began working on The Rose in 1958. She was 29 years old and for the next eight years, she did little else but sit on a stool in her studio, smoking cigarettes, drinking Christian bothers brandy while she painted and scraped away at her vision.

First titled The Deathrose, then The White Rose and finally just The Rose, DeFeo only stopped working on the painting when an increase in rent forced her from her studio. By then it was 1966, her marriage was ending, she was in fragile physical and mental health, and The Rose had become too large to fit out the door. 

At nearly 12 feet high and in places eight inches thick, The Rose was constructed from layer upon layer of built up and scraped away black and white paint. DeFeo added mica chips to the paint and so The Rose has its own interior light.”

But none of them realized as Dalí did that dreams are actually not indistinct and misty and floaty. They happen in the middle of the afternoon. Crystal clear. …And dreams don’t have a subtext. You don’t think in a dream. The most unusual stuff happens in the most unusal way. All in broad daylight with no shade.

— John Cooper Clarke, on Salvador Dalí (via nevver)

losed:

Cody Rocko

theparisreview:

In a note to Fitzgerald, Hemingway shows he was better at being aggressive than passive-aggressive.

For more of this morning’s roundup, click here.

“Kiss my ass”

MY CLASSROOM WAS ON THE FIRST FLOOR, next to the nuns’ lounge. I used their bathroom to puke in the mornings. One nun always dusted the toilet seat with talcum powder. Another nun plugged the sink and filled it with water. I never understood the nuns. One was old and the other was young. The young one talked to me sometimes, asked me what I would do for the long weekend, if I’d see my folks over Christmas, and so forth. The old one looked the other way and twisted her robes in her fists when she saw me coming.

My classroom was the school’s old library. It was a messy old library room, with books and magazines splayed out all over the place and a whistling radiator and big fogged-up windows overlooking Sixth Street. I put two student desks together to make up my desk at the front of the room, next to the chalkboard. I kept a down-filled sleeping bag in a cardboard box in the back of the room and covered the sleeping bag with old newspapers. Between classes I took the sleeping bag out, locked the door, and napped until the bell rang. I was usually still drunk from the night before. Sometimes I had a drink at lunch at the Indian restaurant around the corner, just to keep me going—sharp wheat ale in a squat, brown bottle. McSorley’s was there but I didn’t like all that nostalgia. That bar made me roll my eyes. I rarely made my way down to the school cafeteria, but when I did, the principal, Mr. Kishka, would stop me and smile broadly and say, “Here she comes, the vegetarian.” I don’t know why he thought I was a vegetarian. What I took from the cafeteria were prepackaged digits of cheese, chicken nuggets, and greasy dinner rolls.

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I’ve been playing the song from The Bling Ring trailer since I got home

hel-looks:

Ines, 18

“I found my hat in the ground, the coat is from Weekday, the bag from a thrift store in Warsaw and the shoes from the recycling center in Espoo.

I don’t like too stylish or neat looks. Old clothes are always nice. I strongly recommend the Matinkylä recycling center in Espoo.”

16 February 2011, Asema-aukio

junkculture:

Artist Creates Miniature Dioramas Inside Discarded Televisions

Polished lightning ridge opal specimen

moglu:

Kawéskar -

Collage on card, 180x180mm

ohverytired:

apartment