the ugly earring

ug‧ly [uhg-lee] offensive to the sense of beauty; displeasing in appearance

Month: May, 2011

articulate the necessity

“The poet or the revolutionary is there to articulate the necessity, but until the people themselves apprehend it, nothing can happen … Perhaps it can’t be done without the poet, but it certainly can’t be done without the people. The poet and the people get on generally very badly, and yet they need each other. The poet knows it sooner than the people do. The people usually know it after the poet is dead; but that’s all right. The point is to get your work done, and your work is to change the world.”
— James Baldwin

photo from here

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random fashion post

photo: all the pretty birds

seashell shoes

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

~william butler yeats, a man young and old: III. The mermaid

the razor clam

But I didn’t want to forget. Hugging my grudge, ugly and prickly, a sad sea urchin, I trudged off on my own, in the opposite direction toward the forbidding prison. As from a star I saw, coldly and soberly, the separateness of everything. I felt the wall of my skin; I am I. That stone is a stone. My beautiful fusion with the things of this world was over.
The Tide ebbed, sucked back into itself. There I was, a reject, with the dried black seaweed whose hard beads I liked to pop, hollowed orange and grapefruit halves and a garbage of shells. All at once, old and lonely, I eyed these– razor clams, fairy boats, weedy mussels, the oyster’s pocked gray lace (there was never a pearl) and tiny white “ice cream cones.” You could always tell where the best shells were– at the rim of the last wave, marked by a mascara of tar. I picked up, frigidly, a stiff pink starfish. It lay at the heart of my palm, a joke dummy of my own hand. Sometimes I nursed starfish alive in jam jars of seawater and watched them grow back lost arms. On this day, this awful birthday of otherness, my rival, somebody else, I flung the starfish against a stone. Let it perish.
— Sylvia Plath

photo: Alexander McQueen, s/s 01 – razor clam shell gown

with reverence and conviction

“The next real literary “rebels” in this country might well emerge as some weird bunch of anti-rebels, born oglers who dare somehow to back away from ironic watching, who have the childish gall actually to endorse and instantiate single-entendre principles. Who treat of plain old untrendy human troubles and emotions in U.S. life with reverence and conviction. Who eschew self-consciousness and hip fatigue. These anti-rebels would be outdated, of course, before they even started. Dead on the page. Too sincere. Clearly repressed. Backward, quaint, naive, anachronistic. Maybe that’ll be the point. Maybe that’s why they’ll be the next real rebels. Real rebels, as far as I can see, risk disapproval. The old postmodern insurgents risked the gasp and squeal: shock, disgust, outrage, censorship, accusations of socialism, anarchism, nihilism. Today’s risks are different. The new rebels might be artists willing to risk the yawn, the rolled eyes, the cool smile, the nudged ribs, the parody of gifted ironists, the “Oh how banal.” To risk accusations of sentimentality, melodrama. Of overcredulity. Of softness. Of willingness to be suckered by a world of lurkers and starers who fear gaze and ridicule above imprisonment without law. Who knows. ”

~ David Foster Wallace

married to the ground

Organic buildings are the strength and lightness of the spiders’ spinning, buildings qualified by light, bred by native character to environment, married to the ground.
~Frank Lloyd Wright

the eliphante, photo from here

desert sand castles

Her tale of the castle traces to the late 1920s. She was living with her parents in Seattle when her father suddenly deserted his wife and 5-year-old Mary Lou.

“He said he wanted to pursue his dream of being an artist,” Mary Lou once recalled. “It broke my heart that he left us.”

A few years after his disappearance, letters began to trickle in, postmarked from Arizona.

Mary Lou hoped he would return someday, but it wasn’t to be. In 1945, a telegram brought news of her father’s death. Then, as if from the grave, a final letter arrived: “Dearest Mary Lou: Can you forgive me? It wasn’t art I wanted, it was you. I left home not because I wanted freedom but because I had tuberculosis.”

He shared his secret that he had been building a home in Phoenix. Curious, Mary Lou and her mother set out to see for themselves. It was almost 10 p.m. when they arrived. After checking into a downtown hotel, they decided not to wait for morning. They took a taxi and headed south, knowing only that the house was near Seventh Street at South Mountain.

As the cab drew closer, the castle’s form took shape. Mary Lou suddenly understood. When she was about 3 years old, she loved to watch her father build sand castles. She asked if he would someday make her one big enough to live in. As she gazed that night at her new home, she realized he had kept his promise.

(from this article)
photo from life visits the mystery castle
the mystery castle

when i carved my name there

photo: here
a better view of the poem: here

and then we connect with a machine

EGG: So how would you describe your alternative?

PS: I was trying to come up with a planetary hermitage. We tend to be hermits, especially now with the computer technology. Which means we tend to separate ourselves from everybody else and then keep in communication through the computer technology. Which is like a “magic” technology, and it’s going to stay with us for good. But this communication is mostly virtual. It’s based on virtual things, and that doesn’t go very well with our bodies. We have a brain and we have a body, and if we separate the two from each other we are going to get in terrible trouble. And that’s what we tend to do now. We separate our brains from our body, and then we connect with a machine. The machine bridges us to the next brain, so we have this level of communication and learning, and a database that tends to be virtual. So that’s the hermitage I’m talking about.

EGG: What does the rest of the architecture world think about you?

PS: I’m not that interested, really. Oh, the usual. That he’s a clown. That he’s a visionary. The true visionaries are the clergy and all the theological systems that we have around. Those are visions, they are not realities. Those are visions.

(inside and outside with paolo soleri via mondoblogo)
(interview: here)

souvenir

“As a woman I have no country. As a woman I want no country. As a woman, my country is the whole world.”
— Virginia Woolf

(photo by joanna from keep feeling fascination – her trip to fez.)