#dictionary's photography

[diana-andraste]

Still Life (In An Airshaft), Joel-Peter Witkin, 1967

"He cut off his nose to be revenged of his face."

A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose, 1788

[archaeologs]

A tomb structure from Tuna El-Gebel, site of the necropolis of Hermopolis Magna. It is thought to date back to the 1st century AD. Image by Niedersächsisches Landesmuseum Hannover, Project Tuna el-Gebel.

Learn more https://www.archaeologs.com/w/tuna-el-gebel/en

[rushdavsky]

I found pressed flowers in my grandfather's dictionary today. It took several seconds to hit me that i kept em in the dictionary years ago.

[mariemariemaria]

lmao manchán magan has a whole book that is just full of irish words for vagina/vulva/clit/menstruation etc???

[nururu]

Hearing other phone heads be like "look at all my cool old unique phones! Where'd the creativity go??" literally..... iPhone..... ruined..... all of that....... there's no cool unique phones bc everyone is so dedicated to iPhone for no reason......... Android still makes unique phones... Android listens to what their consumers say..... bc they don't depend on blind devotion to keep their users happy. iPhones literally sold y'all phones that don't work after a year. Even now. Your iPhone has an experation date bc you can't delete internal meta data..... iPhone is a locked service that only performs well when interacting with other iPhones..... like....... idk man...... y'all got the worst phone and support the worst brand and then are confused on why it's bad..... It's literally: "'I never thought leopards would eat MY face,' sobs woman who voted for the Leopards Eating People's Faces Party."......... c'mon....... "iPhones operating system just makes sense to me" did you know you can download an app on the Android store that turns your android into an iPhone OS? You can have the iOS you love on an android. A better phone... a better company.... you can have the system you're familiar with..... iPhone dedication is literally just for show and status. Which doesn't make sense bc androids not only look better but the good ones are more expensive than any iPhone. So if you want to look rich...... id get a Samsung Galaxy 23 ultra.

[robertmatejcek]

Paper Wasps' Nest - 2.5″x2.5″ paper negative, kodak brownie hawkeye with inverted lens, caffenol developer - robert matejcek - 2023

Dale Gribble: "They'll probably get you with a blow-dart; that's their way. But you'll just think it's a mosquito bite until you die, then you'll know the truth." - Johnny Hardwick - King of the Hill

tags:

[woundedheartwithin]

An ash I know stands, Yggdrasil by name, a high tree, drenched with bright white mud; from there come the dews that drop in the dales, it always stands green over Destiny’s well.

The Poetic Edda, Völuspá 19 Andy Orchard’s translation, 2011

Twitter | Instagram | Print Store | linktree  

[emeraldlabyrinth]

A Simply Amusing Book

[porcelain-words]

[sadiesm]

isn't it all about old friends?

ROH Death Before Dishonour 2011, via Get Lost Photography / Swing Time, Zadie Smith / reDRagon AMA / PWG All-Star Weekend XI Night Two, via Mikey Nolan Photography / adamcolepro on Instagram / Walking Home, Marie Howe / ROH Killer Instinct 2012 by Get Lost Photography, via fyindywrestling / Kyle O'Reilly via Fightful / A letter to W.D. Snodgrass, Anne Sexton / WWE NXT, via samsbvcky / AEW Unrestricted: Kyle O'Reilly, via Fightful / White Ferrari, Frank Ocean / WWE NXT, via En El Ring / The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows / AEW Dynamite 11/13/2024 / whitealbum

[nexility-sims]

𝐍𝐎. 𝟏𝟓   ❛ 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭 ❜   |   RENZO'S HOUSE, NAKAWE, OCTOBER 1991

❧  𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲  /  𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠  /  𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬  /  𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

Leonor stayed for a few days, treating Renzo’s guesthouse as a hideaway for avoiding the reality waiting outside its walls. Jim was there for only a blip of that time. He was more of an observer than a participant. At first Leonor found the camera blocking his face distracting, but she got used to it the way one might a deformity. It was part of him. He must have been a shy child. Maybe picking up photography gave him a way into the world—a means to navigate it, to notice without truly being seen. It soon made sense to her why he and Renzo had become friends. There was a basic similarity there, although Renzo had much worse luck at being unseeable. But, Jim’s departure was welcome. Renzo intended to go out with him, to introduce him to would-be mutual friends, but Jim ended up alone. Leonor had leaned against the kitchen counter without an ounce of guilt and watched as Renzo scrawled a list of addresses and phone numbers. ‘Pick up a pocket dictionary,’ he’d warned. ‘Your Uspanian is worse than mine, brother.’ So it was. Jim gave them a cheerful salute before he disappeared into the backyard’s foliage, and Leonor decided she admired the pluckiness of braving a foreign city, all alone and clearly out of place.

❧ this concludes a sweet three-part arc, and i think it's a good one ! partial to the bonfire wide shot, personally, but it's all nice and fluffy. (& idk what exactly she’s reading aloud but let’s say it’s faulkner, as i lay dying. rip 2 leonor.)

𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

Leonor stayed for a few days, treating Renzo’s guesthouse as a hideaway for avoiding the reality waiting outside its walls. Jim was there for only a blip of that time. He was more of an observer than a participant. At first Leonor found the camera blocking his face distracting, but she got used to it the way one might a deformity. It was part of him. He must have been a shy child. Maybe picking up photography gave him a way into the world—a means to navigate it, to notice without truly being seen. It soon made sense to her why he and Renzo had become friends. There was a basic similarity there, although Renzo had much worse luck at being unseeable. But, Jim’s departure was welcome. Renzo intended to go out with him, to introduce him to would-be mutual friends, but Jim ended up alone. Leonor had leaned against the kitchen counter without an ounce of guilt and watched as Renzo scrawled a list of addresses and phone numbers. ‘Pick up a pocket dictionary,’ he’d warned. ‘Your Uspanian is worse than mine, brother.’ So it was. Jim gave them a cheerful salute before he disappeared into the backyard’s foliage, and Leonor decided she admired the pluckiness of braving a foreign city, all alone and clearly out of place.

She slept through morning again the next day, waking up occasionally to find herself still alone in the bedroom, eyes squeezed shut while the sun warmed her face, determined to stay in the sheets as long as she could. At one point, she looked around as Renzo ducked into the room. He lingered by the door. That must have a been a wake-up call of sorts, or perhaps his attempt at being polite. The sound of his footsteps going downstairs receded, then the music began. It wasn’t gentle piano or upbeat jazz, as appropriate for lazy mornings, but thrashing drums and electric guitar riffs blaring, if muffled, through the floor. With her face in a pillow, Leonor smiled. ‘It just does something for me,’ he told her once. ‘Loud music. Where it hurts a little. Distracts me.’ She asked from what, and he shrugged, ‘Cravings.’ Lying in his bed with her eyes closed, she imagined him downstairs doing the same thing, perhaps on the rug or with his feet hanging off the edge of the lounge chair. He was as likely to be crouched down chewing his lefthand nails, pacing with a magazine, staring at the vinyl collection with his hands knotted in his hair.

But, she wasn’t ready to go find out what he was up to just yet. When she did get up, it was with a mission. She picked up the Polaroid camera on the bedside table and held it at arms’ length to snap a picture of herself. While it developed, she opened the drawer and rummaged around. This table was the least used of the two—the guest one, in a way. There were hard candies inside, a few pocket knives, and a datebook with nothing inside. She peeked inside the plastic shopping bag shoved behind the table’s lamp: cheap red wine and cough syrup, both unopened.

The rest of the room’s nooks and crannies held the same kind of intriguing, mundane miscellany. In the large wardrobe across from the bed, he kept the clothes he wore most often. There was a dresser elsewhere with socks, underwear, tee shirts, and party favors he didn’t leave out downstairs. His favorite leather jacket was hanging, tucked haphazardly in the center, flanked by plaid flannels and jeans. Feeling around in all of the pockets, she found empty cigarette packs, less loved lighters, spare change, loose pills and matches, and scraps of paper—circled phone numbers, stick men without faces, and titles to what she assumed were books and songs predominated. One nondescript receipt had “Call Nora,” large and underlined, on the back. Tossed on the bottom shelf, some of his beat-up boots and sneakers concealed wads of cash tucked inside them.

His books were filled with marginalia, and Leonor took pride in identifying what belonged to him and what had probably been there when he acquired it. Some were gifts. Some belonged to libraries thousands of miles away. Among some, she saw pages of a script. She scanned the dialogue and concluded she wanted to ask about it later. Was he going to transform himself into “Sam,” whom context clues suggested was very busy running a quirky jewelry emporium and impersonating his possibly deceased landlady? Leonor could imagine it. He would swallow the angst on these pages whole and do something incredible with it. It would be charming, too. Although he refused to watch it with her, she had seen his turn as a rancher with a chronically ill child and wept over it. But, she hoped he didn’t find “Sam” that appealing. It didn’t look like a Uspanian project, after all.

What piqued her interest most was packed away behind his armchair in a box of keepsakes. The binders she flipped through were photo albums. She couldn’t picture him doing any scrap-booking. Were they made for him, then? By who? She didn’t recognize anyone in the photos, except for Renzo himself. He was younger, clean shaven, usually smiling toothy grins that didn’t reach his eyes. There were also worn blankets, souvenirs from places she had never heard of, innocuous trinkets she viewed differently now that she knew the backstory behind the toy cube on top of his television set. Maybe he was what some called a pack rat, but she believed his junk all had stories attached—consequential ones that would feel to her as it from another universe.

Looking through this box, she reflected on the patchwork way his life had come together for her. He knew her biography from start to finish, with the emotional filler that accompanied recounting it. There wasn’t much to tell; it was a couple decades’ long and uneventful for, conservatively, twenty of those twenty-one years.  It was less of a book and more of a pamphlet. “Born A Princess? Three Steps To Succeed.” His was longer, and she understood it as nothing but events, one after another, linked with knotted threads that looked like desperation, recklessness, craving. It wasn’t a book. It was the messy, unorganized, impenetrable cabinet of research that could become a collection of books someday, maybe. He had already lived four or five lives before she was old enough to seriously contemplate hers. Even then, she couldn’t conceive the kind of reinvention he alternatively stumbled or dove into without a second thought. Or, at any rate, she hadn’t really tried to.

What grabbed her amid the box’s treasures was a single framed photograph. She extracted it with care and held it in her hands for a long time. Music still thudded through the floor, so loud that she could feel it, but this was a peaceful moment. In the frame, what could only be his child self peeked at her from behind a notebook, and a woman who looked like his mother stared with the same heavy eyes. Only, hers were dark—browner than brown, black even, familiar in a different way.

Leonor stared at the photograph of them together until her vision blurred. She sniffed a few times and dried her eyes with the backs of her hands, letting the frame sit in her lap while she collected herself. Once she had, she stood up without much forethought and went to place it on the bedside table. There was space for it on his side, between the stack of books, alongside his ashtray and remote controller, with room to put it face down when needed. She sank to her knees. With her chin on folded arms, she resumed soaking in this rare glimpse of his first life. She struggled to picture what was beyond the frames of the photograph but tried anyway.

Her eyes drifted from his to his mother’s and back again. She did know what this woman had been like back then—a composite cobbled together from his mentionings, usually in some contrast to Leonor’s own mother, leaking unfathomable realities of his upbringing that made her balk and hold him tighter. ‘She wasn’t a bad mother,’ he claimed. ‘She’s just fucked up. Congenitally. And I am glad I got her variety of it instead of his, to be clear.’ Today, she lived in a place called Little Rock in a house Renzo bought for her. He noted that his father was with her more than ever, but that didn’t make much of a difference to anyone. 'He wants to move to Los Angeles,' Renzo recounted with a scoff. 'We told him, "Great, fuck off then!" No dice.'

As Leonor sat looking at the photograph, she wondered if there were others pictures in that house—whether she looked at them more than Renzo apparently did and whether she would agree with his assessment of their time together. Then, she tried to imagine them in a room together. There were huge windows, drenching the colorful furnishings in sunlight. In this fantasy, Leonor wore white, not because her mother had been dead for less than a year but because Renzo liked when she wore it. His mother liked her, too, and she liked Safya, who promptly breezed into the room, alive and bearing enough vitality to make up for what the three of them lacked.

At first, she suspected Renzo hadn’t noticed the photograph newly on display. That was fine, she decided. The prospect of having to explain herself sent a small chill up her spine. 'Oh, I found it' wouldn't suffice. He came into the room well after she had moved on to another, less invasive occupation. She was flipping through old music magazines on the balcony when he showed up at her shoulder, stripped down to just his white socks and announcing that she needed to come wash his hair. They could both fit in the bathtub without injury, most likely. Plus, he was proud of himself for having bought a hair dryer. It was the same one she had, in fact; that he didn’t know any other kind wasn’t important.

As they left the room so he could show her, he lingered to glance over his shoulder once, then a second time. His expression reflected in the bathroom mirror when he caught up with her was troubled, at least until their eyes met and seemed to distract him again.

[Muffled loud music, Leonor humming]

LEONOR | I’m excited to get the prints. RENZO | From Jim? Yeah. Good man. He misread you, though. LEONOR | You think so? Maybe … The candids were better.

RENZO | He wanted to impress you. Magazine spread treatment. LEONOR | Hm. It started like that, didn’t it? I’m offended, actually. RENZO | [chuckles] Oh, yeah? LEONOR | Like I can’t appreciate something simple.

RENZO | It’s an easy mistake to make, you know. LEONOR | That’s what you thought. RENZO | Big time. You wore pink sequins and a fucking tennis bracelet to a bar hang. Message loud and clear.

LEONOR | I felt ridiculous! It doesn’t come easy. I suppose it never needed to. I do like it, I really do—simplicity. Small things. Normalcy. RENZO | Normal is relative. LEONOR | You know what I mean. Like this. We have people for this. [Renzo laughs]

RENZO | I could tell—after a while, that very first night. Yeah, you started out awkward and uptight—maybe that was discomfort, maybe it was judgment—but I saw it. Genuine interest. Curiosity. Fucking rare.

LEONOR | Really? RENZO | You’re complicated, Nora. So sincere it makes me sad sometimes. Sweet—bittersweet. And surprising. I love that about you.

LEONOR | It would be better if you read it. I can’t do the accent. RENZO | Drawl. It’s a drawl. Anyway, I like listening. Doing this. LEONOR | Being together. RENZO | Being together.

LEONOR | Speaking of … I wanted to ask something. Hear me out?

LEONOR | I want to go to an event with you. Not one of mine; one of yours. Something real. Professional. That you care about. Maybe there’s nothing anytime soon, but when there is … I want to be there.

LEONOR | What? Is that crazy? RENZO | No, it’s not. I just don’t think it’s a good idea. LEONOR | Why? RENZO | You know why.

LEONOR | You don’t want to reconsider. RENZO | Don’t know.

LEONOR | Do you remember Arturo? RENZO | [sighs] Sure. LEONOR | The worst part about … all of that? I ended things where there was no way he’d get any closure—at all. I just kicked him out. He was going to go weep for Mama, with my family. That was certain. Then, I made him nothing with a few words.

LEONOR | Eventually, it occurred to me that it wasn’t actually an impulsive choice. Having him around that morning made me feel awful—I wanted to crawl out of my skin just looking at him; isn’t that terrible?—but … Grief makes it all bigger, doesn’t it? RENZO | It does, yeah. Too big. LEONOR | Five years. Living Mama’s life. I didn’t want to marry him. I don’t want to marry anyone. I told myself, later, that he must’ve known —felt it?—so it was okay. Not explaining or apologizing. Hurting him .

LEONOR | I gave him everything. I didn’t owe him anything else. He could figure that out on his own. RENZO | Alright, a little fucked up. LEONOR | [chuckles] Yeah. Not that I regret anything.

LEONOR | Don’t do that to me. I don’t need a promise, reassurances, whatever. It’s a request, that’s all. When the time comes, do it with your eyes wide open, okay?

LEONOR | —seriously, you could put on a dress shirt but not pants or shoes? I bet it’s a stunt. I think you like the attention. RENZO | Me? You know me better than that.

RENZO | Can’t a man be comfortable in his own yard? [Leonor laughs]

RENZO | I wish you didn’t have to leave. Wish you could stay in bed all day instead of talking to some fucking journalist for television. LEONOR | Me too. But it’s work. I have to go. Reality calls.

RENZO | This one isn’t just work. It’s going to hurt. Not ready, are you? LEONOR | Do you have to ask? RENZO | You didn’t bring it up again. Last opportunity.

LEONOR | [whispers] It’s so close. A year. It didn’t feel like anything—I knew it would happen, that’s all—and now I can feel it. Right here, in my chest. Bigger and bigger. RENZO | I know. LEONOR | Will it always be like this? RENZO | Yes. Sometimes it gets easier. Sometimes it doesn’t.

LEONOR | And if it doesn’t? RENZO | You can handle it. LEONOR | How do you know that? RENZO | Hell if I know. Being beat over the head with life experience. Knowing you. Lucky guess? Gut feelings are truth, usually.

RENZO | No tears. You’ll mess up your eyeliner. LEONOR | It’s okay. They all want to see me cry anyway. RENZO | Yeah, well, fuck that—I don’t.

LEONOR | Maybe later? Ruin my eyeliner, I mean. RENZO | Happy tears, sure. We can arrange that. LEONOR | Good. I need something to look forward to.

[archaeologs]

Kom Ombo temple at sunset on the Nile in Egypt. Photo by Christian Delbert.

Learn more / Daha fazlası https://www.archaeologs.com/w/kom-ombo/

[timkarr]

Hoboken, NJ, 2024. Palisade.

The dictionary defines a palisade as a fence of stakes used especially for defense; as a line of bold cliffs; as a wall. The Palisades of Hudson County, New Jersey, are basalt outcroppings formed 200 million years ago when shifting tectonics pushed molten material up to the surface. Today, these cliffs line the western edge of the lower Hudson River, mirrored in the glass and steel of the skyscrapers rising to the east.   The remnants of the American Dream can be found on the street corners and in the storefronts of the working-class, immigrant communities of Jersey City, Union City and North Bergen that crowd together atop the Palisades and spill into the Meadowlands beyond. It’s a vibrant, dense and complex urban setting that’s forever in flux, aspiring for more. The latest disruption comes via a wealthier wave of migrants fleeing New York City in search of real estate.   My photographs document the places and people living on a wall that often divides and defines them. I don’t hope to explain this world with words; as the late John Berger wrote about photography: “The relation between what we see and what we know is never settled.” In Palisade, I’m interested in exploring this relationship — to understand how photographs can describe facts that words fail to explain, and connect the natural to the man-made, the fleeting to the eternal, and the foreign to the familiar. 

[diana-andraste]

Images of Reality

Bruno Munari

Supplement to the Italian dictionary

Corraini Edizioni

[doctorbunny]

Kazui's armband from Cat

Last night someone in a discord server came in dejected they were unable to read the armband Kazui and Hinako wore during cat, they couldn't get a good angle to screenshot it

So on a whim I looked some stuff up in my dictionary and typed "警察腕章" (Keisatsu wanshou/police armband)

This was the first result and it looks pretty close, the text is 捜査 (sousa) meaning search, its specifically a word used more in criminal investigation than say looking for your missing sock, but whilst the left kanji is promising there isn't any sign of the right one in the original screenshot so back to google

This is more like it! 捜一 Souichi, a word that is not in my dictionary and one of the first results for searching it is 読み方 (how to read)... Good news people who want to specifically cosplay Kazui and/or Hinako in their cop uniforms for some reason, because there's a lot of the above armband for sale online on amazon, mercari and probably anywhere else that sells stuff under 撮影用 (satsuei you/use in filming/photography) I also kept getting search results for actors/police dramas so I briefly considered the possibility Kazui and Hinako weren't real cops at all, but I don't think that's the case

It seems 捜一 is a shortened form of 捜査一課 (sousa ichi ka) Roughly translating to 'Investigation Department 1' [note, 捜査一課 can also be written as 捜査1課, the version with kanji vs arabic numeral seems interchangable, just for additional confusion]

To oversimply an entire system. Japan's police tend to be split into 4 main departments 捜査○○課 Department 1/捜査一課 deals with murder, robbery, assault, abduction/kidnapping, false imprisonment, sex crimes and arson Department 2/捜査二課 deals with economic fraud Department 3/捜査三課 is also robbery but like smaller stuff like purse snatching Department 4/捜査四課 deals with organised crime Basically when it comes to the case of 10 people being abducted and held in a prison outside of Japanese law for several years under threat of execution That's a job for Kazui and his wife's department!

Bonus fact idk if its relavent, but the 'kazu' in Kazui (一威) is spelt with the kanji for 1 "一" ... I guess his parents knew which department they wanted him working in lol

[brokehorrorfan]

Picnic at Hanging Rock will be released on 4K Ultra HD + Blu-ray on April 9 via The Criterion Collection. Eric Skillman designed the cover art for the 1975 Australian mystery film.

Peter Weir (The Truman Show, Dead Poets Society) directs from a script by Cliff Green, based on Joan Lindsay's 1967 novel. Anne-Louise Lambert, Rachel Roberts, Dominic Guard, Helen Morse, Vivean Gray, and Jacki Weaver star.

Picnic at Hanging Rock has been newly restored in 4K, supervised by Weir and director of photography Russell Boyd, with HDR and 5.1 surround DTS-HD Master Audio. Special features are listed below.

Special features:

Interview with director Peter Weir

Making-of featurette with executive producer Patricia Lovell, producers Hal McElroy and Jim McElroy, and cast members

Introduction by film scholar David Thomson, author of The New Biographical Dictionary of Film

On-set documentary hosted by executive producer Patricia Lovell and featuring interviews with Peter Weir, actor Rachel Roberts, and author Joan Lindsay

Homesdale - 1971 black comedy directed by Peter Weir

Trailer

Essay by author Megan Abbott and an excerpt from film scholar Marek Haltof’s 1996 book Peter Weir: When Cultures Collide

This sensual and striking chronicle of a disappearance and its aftermath put director Peter Weir on the map and helped usher in a new era of Australian cinema. Based on an acclaimed 1967 novel by Joan Lindsay, Picnic at Hanging Rock is set at the turn of the twentieth century and concerns a small group of students from an all-female college who vanish, along with a chaperone, while on a St. Valentine’s Day outing. Less a mystery than a journey into the mystic, as well as an inquiry into issues of class and sexual repression in Australian society, Weir’s gorgeous, disquieting film is a work of poetic horror whose secrets haunt viewers to this day.

Pre-order Picnic at Hanging Rock.