Things That Are Easier From Far Away

vs. Things That Are Not

Thoughts?

posted 6 hours ago on February 10th, 2010 at 00:59 /
posted 7 hours ago on February 9th, 2010 at 23:58 via thisrecording /
yvonnegeorgina:

(The Boboli Gardens, Firenze, 2007)
26th February 1950
A trip to Tuscany and Emilia. I thought of my essay on poetry and popular culture; thought, above all, of the connection between the countryside and culture, of the natural (botanical and mineral) roots of art. At Florence (Rovez-zano) in Val Pesa, Elsa - Siena - you felt why that land has given birth to art. The country expresses the grace of Florence and Siena. But when a civilization is no longer linked with the country, what will be the radical sources of its culture? Are we henceforward to be cut off from the influx of botany, minerals, the seasonal changes of the countryside upon art? It would seem so.
-Cesare Pavese (via Alex)

you felt why that land has given birth to art.
Florence. I did not grow up there, I did not live there long, I never had a job there, I didn’t graduate there, nothing monumental occurred in a way that could be socially understood. Still, it felt like my home. A real true home. I went there alone essentially, with classmates I did not know, and for that I got to be myself exactly with no pretenses and no dictations. It is the most marvelous place. I am very much deeply in love with that city, and I always will be. There is no way to pry it from my heart. Is it unusual to be so attached to a place? I am not sure. I suspect it is frustrating when I discuss it. I spent so much time everywhere else considering how little time I actually lived there. Still, the time spent there weighed so much. I felt so much. It was never wasted. Everything was new, so I always took notice. I was speaking in a second language. Every flower, every conversation, every strange paint color, the statues, fountains, my classmates, every last thing was so new and so very there and so tremendously in the moment. Every day, every hour, was in the moment. Does this make sense? That is why it meant so much. I wasted no time with my experiences, I sought them, I loved them, I was theirs. I belonged to the city by the end of it.
Boboli is particularly heartbreaking. It was the site of a memorable realization that occurred to me one day during class. One that has since not seemed to yield to anything. I thought of it tonight on the train actually, and now here is Boboli where I was hundreds of days ago, painting, and thinking too much. Of course.

yvonnegeorgina:

(The Boboli Gardens, Firenze, 2007)

26th February 1950

A trip to Tuscany and Emilia. I thought of my essay on poetry and popular culture; thought, above all, of the connection between the countryside and culture, of the natural (botanical and mineral) roots of art. At Florence (Rovez-zano) in Val Pesa, Elsa - Siena - you felt why that land has given birth to art. The country expresses the grace of Florence and Siena. But when a civilization is no longer linked with the country, what will be the radical sources of its culture? Are we henceforward to be cut off from the influx of botany, minerals, the seasonal changes of the countryside upon art? It would seem so.

-Cesare Pavese (via Alex)

you felt why that land has given birth to art.

Florence. I did not grow up there, I did not live there long, I never had a job there, I didn’t graduate there, nothing monumental occurred in a way that could be socially understood. Still, it felt like my home. A real true home. I went there alone essentially, with classmates I did not know, and for that I got to be myself exactly with no pretenses and no dictations. It is the most marvelous place. I am very much deeply in love with that city, and I always will be. There is no way to pry it from my heart. Is it unusual to be so attached to a place? I am not sure. I suspect it is frustrating when I discuss it. I spent so much time everywhere else considering how little time I actually lived there. Still, the time spent there weighed so much. I felt so much. It was never wasted. Everything was new, so I always took notice. I was speaking in a second language. Every flower, every conversation, every strange paint color, the statues, fountains, my classmates, every last thing was so new and so very there and so tremendously in the moment. Every day, every hour, was in the moment. Does this make sense? That is why it meant so much. I wasted no time with my experiences, I sought them, I loved them, I was theirs. I belonged to the city by the end of it.

Boboli is particularly heartbreaking. It was the site of a memorable realization that occurred to me one day during class. One that has since not seemed to yield to anything. I thought of it tonight on the train actually, and now here is Boboli where I was hundreds of days ago, painting, and thinking too much. Of course.

posted 8 hours ago on February 9th, 2010 at 23:43 via yvonnegeorgina /
posted 11 hours ago on February 9th, 2010 at 20:31 /

«Art is the proper task of life.»

Friedrich Nietzche (via electrichoney)

There we go.

posted 16 hours ago on February 9th, 2010 at 15:01 via electrichoney /
bobsaysmeow:

iaminlikewithmybike:

lazylinepainterjayne: (via likeneelyohara)

Dear Amanda, please do this to your bike.

Dear Robert, I saw this earlier and contemplated whether or not it was moral to take this many paint samples from home depot.

bobsaysmeow:

iaminlikewithmybike:

lazylinepainterjayne: (via likeneelyohara)

Dear Amanda, please do this to your bike.

Dear Robert, I saw this earlier and contemplated whether or not it was moral to take this many paint samples from home depot.

posted 16 hours ago on February 9th, 2010 at 15:00 via bobsaysmeow /
I’m presenting on this for class today. Only five minutes. Anish Kapoor’s Memory which is installed right now at the Guggenheim.
I am not sure there is anything I hate more than presenting. Maybe getting blood drawn?

I’m presenting on this for class today. Only five minutes. Anish Kapoor’s Memory which is installed right now at the Guggenheim.

I am not sure there is anything I hate more than presenting. Maybe getting blood drawn?

posted 18 hours ago on February 9th, 2010 at 13:17 /
sympathyfortheartgallery:


saar:

Working out of New York, tattooist Amanda Wachobtakes the a fine art approach to the medium, creating flowing,  colourful works on the human form canvas. - via LostAtEMinor

Wow, this is beautiful.

sympathyfortheartgallery:

saar:

Working out of New York, tattooist Amanda Wachobtakes the a fine art approach to the medium, creating flowing, colourful works on the human form canvas. - via LostAtEMinor

Wow, this is beautiful.

posted 19 hours ago on February 9th, 2010 at 11:46 via sympathyfortheartgallery /
It was this shirt.
Photo courtesy of Dana.

It was this shirt.

Photo courtesy of Dana.

posted 1 day ago on February 9th, 2010 at 02:34 /
tags: gpoyw

Today I woke up to find that I had indeed not put the cap back on my .005 prismacolor pen before falling asleep. I dreamed I had put the cap on. It is my favorite sort of pen, so in drifting to sleep it concerned me. I awoke to find the cat on the bed next to me, my book open to a chapter on Manet, and the light drifting in through the shutters I’d left open to ensure I’d actually get up.

I couldn’t help but feel cheerful about the class to come. Impressionism and Manet and Baudelaire. I may be into more modern or contemporary works, but goodness, I dream about something like “The Painter of Modern Life” being published in a newspaper today. It is simply fun to read. It may have lost its strength over time, but Baudelaire talks explicitly about serving one’s own time and one’s own time alone. The great thing of Modernity is it’s ephemeral nature, he says. Painters are observers, they are flâneurs (“a person who walks the city in order to experience it”). Am I a flaneur? Does Baudelaire nail my pedestrian ambitions, my wanderlust, my desire for being lost (so easy to achieve in this new city)? I swoon and ogle the excellent reproductions of Impressionist works in my book. The sky is so blue out that I can’t imagine going to school with anything other than the Innocence Mission. I was almost late because I had put the albums on my phone, but it was simply essential to do so. It was exactly that sort of solitary morning filled with a mysterious love. The comforter was so white, the sky such a clear deep blue (deep like the sound of a very large church bell), and my hair even parted how I hoped it would (it never does). I got dressed with purpose. I put on a shirt that is as nostalgic and comforting to me as a baby blanket might be to another. I felt completed, somehow. Compelled.

School is this. Other things are this. Mysterious satisfaction. Invisible comfort. The Innocence Mission trailed into this perfect explanation during “Lake Shore Drive”:

I tell myself now
things I would have told to you,
the smallest plan, the greatest news.
The more days come, the more it’s true

Letter writing, letter writing, article writing, article reading, emails, poems, chats, notes, posts, playlists, albums one can live inside of…

posted 1 day ago on February 9th, 2010 at 01:32 /
Along the way of my walk to the post office earlier

Along the way of my walk to the post office earlier

posted 1 day ago on February 8th, 2010 at 20:35 /

How is it this song still elicits chills?

Boot stompin’ and whistlin’ and yellin’ it at the top of your lungs.

I can’t can’t can’t can’t wait until summer and spring. Oh my gooodnesss. I dream of the park becoming green again every day.

Home is wherever I’m with you!

posted 1 day ago on February 8th, 2010 at 18:32 /