Archivalism

zoee:

New York, I love you
But you’re bringing me down

stuffparty:

penllawen:

Old school Google. (via kapi)

Way too good not to reblog.

stuffparty:

B: Homage to Woody Guthrie

Awesome indeed. I just took a look under my Nikon D40 and I don’t think this would work on it and, besides, my tripod plate is pretty much always on it.

Perhaps I can do this with my Soviet Zorki-4 which isn’t so dissimilar from the Leica pictured. Would be cool for International Commie Camera Day…

(via beccaginns)

Spring break just started, so I went to Jenny Holzer’s exhibit PROTECT PROTECT at the Whitney. I was definitely not disappointed.

The power not only of the visual strength but the LED messages was overwhelming. Equally profound were her redaction paintings of US government documents. This exhibit was a gratifying aesthetic experience because it was so accessible. Many times I think artists (in particular modern artists) make their work convoluted, obscure, and unnecessarily inaccessible. Jenny reverses this sad and common dynamic. Congrats to her.

Fortify thyself, partake in this libation

zoee:

Drink up, whiners! I wish this was a t-shirt. (by Ministry of Aesthetics)

mills:

Since I can remember, I have loved sodium-vapor light: the orange low-intensity glow from municipal lamps that for me recalls the warmth of a sunset but in a sea of night’s blackness: a concentrated sunset, a sunset threatened by oblivion.

The other night, taking photos of sodium lights, I recalled a possible explanation: my father used to tell me stories when I was very young about a telephone pole / streetlamp that faced our house in Mississippi. I remember little except that, incredibly, he would make them up as he went, narrating adventures in which I would confront some danger and would require the assistance of this telephone pole, which could magically move and bash foes into the ground. In one, I think he saved me from a demon wearing a cloak.

If I recall correctly, this pole looked a bit as though it had a face, at least to a child, and while I am not sure whether it was sodium vapor I do suspect that my fondness for such lights is at least connected to these memories.

I also find it extraordinary and moving to imagine my father twenty years ago, tellings such stories -of a boy and his sidekick / protector, the magic telephone pole from Bay St. Louis- to his son on summer nights, a small act of creation, a tiny narrative gift of remarkable ingenuity and invention.