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André Derain, La Naissance de Vénus, d’après Botticelli, 1905

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not only did i cheat but we went on your substack and laughed at your critiques of the culture

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Regarding Susan Sontag (2014) dir. by Nancy D. Kates

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“I feel like the world is around me but I don’t live in it. I’m transparent.”

Conte d'été (1996) dir. Éric Rohmer

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The Conference of the Birds, Persian Manuscript, circa 1600; Safavid Iran (Isfahan)

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Dune: Part Two 2024 | Denis Villeneuve

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“Important to become less interesting. To talk less, repeat more, save thinking for writing.” –Susan Sontag, Reborn: Journals and Notebooks 1947-1963

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i know about what you did and i wanna scream the truth she thinks you love the beach, you're such a damn liar

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Here, nothing corroborated any of my fantasies: flesh and blood was being challenged by flesh and blood. It is said that the camera cannot lie, but rarely do we allow it to do anything else, since the camera sees what you point it at: the camera sees what you want it to see. The language of the camera is the language of our dreams.

-James Baldwin, "Congo Square" from The Devil Finds Work

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Schopenhauer's Essays and Aphorisms: On Books and Writing

&

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paloma wool ferry series

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mary oliver already said everything

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What do we do with the body, do we

burn it, do we set it in dirt or in

stone, do we wrap it in balm, honey,

oil, and then gauze and tip it onto

and trust it to a raft and to water?

What will happen to the memory of his

body, if one of us doesn't hurry now

and write it down fast? Will it be

salt or late light that it melts like?

Floss, rubber gloves, and a chewed cap

to a pen elsewhere —how are we to

regard his effects, do we throw them

or use them away, do we say they are

relics and so treat them like relics?

Does his soiled linen count? If so,

would we be wrong then, to wash it?

There are no instructions whether it

should go to where are those with no

linen, or whether by night we should

memorially wear it ourselves, by day

reflect upon it folded, shelved, empty.

Here, on the floor behind his bed is

a bent photo—why? Were the two of

them lovers? Does it mean, where we

found it, that he forgot it or lost it

or intended a safekeeping? Should we

attempt to make contact? What if this

other man too is dead? Or alive, but

doesn't want to remember, is human?

Is it okay to be human, and fall away

from oblation and memory, if we forget,

and can't sometimes help it and sometimes

it is all that we want? How long, in

dawns or new cocks, does that take?

What if it is rest and nothing else that

we want? Is it a findable thing, small?

In what hole is it hidden? Is it, maybe,

a country? Will a guide be required who

will say to us how? Do we fly? Do we

swim? What will I do now, with my hands?

-"as from a quiver of arrows" by carl phillips

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“Changes in fashion reflect the extent of dullness of nervous impulses; the more nervous the age, the more rapidly its fashions change, simply because the need for the appeal of differentiating oneself, one of the most important elements of all fashion, goes hand in hand with the weakening of nervous energy.”

— Georg Simmel, tr. Mark Ritter and David Frisby | “The Philosophy of Style”  (via showings)