August 21, 2014
Some things I will miss about Brooklyn

arnade:

image

My first day in Brooklyn, 21 years ago, I took the subway from my Brooklyn Heights neighborhood to its terminus at the tip of Coney Island. I walked the ten miles back, slowly weaving my way through a contiguous collection of extraordinary neighborhoods, each remarkably different, some…

August 19, 2014

August 17, 2014

there is pleasure

in the pathless woods, 

there is rapture 

in the lonely shore, 

there is society, 

where none intrudes, 

by the deep sea, 

and music in its roar: 

i love not man the less, 

but nature more.

-George Gordon Byron

August 16, 2014

August 14, 2014
Poem by Elizabeth Bishop

About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
American or Canadian,
mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays
-this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?)
has never earned any money in its life.
Useless and free., it has spent seventy years
as a minor family relic handed along collaterally to owners
who looked at it sometimes, or didn’t bother to.

It must be Nova Scotia; only there
does one see abled wooden houses
painted that awful shade of brown.
The other houses, the bits that show, are white.
Elm trees., low hills, a thin church steeple
-that gray-blue wisp-or is it? In the foreground
a water meadow with some tiny cows,
two brushstrokes each, but confidently cows;
two minuscule white geese in the blue water,
back-to-back„ feeding, and a slanting stick.
Up closer, a wild iris, white and yellow,
fresh-squiggled from the tube.
The air is fresh and cold; cold early spring
clear as gray glass; a half inch of blue sky
below the steel-gray storm clouds.
(They were the artist’s specialty.)
A specklike bird is flying to the left.
Or is it a flyspeck looking like a bird?

Heavens, I recognize the place, I know it!
It’s behind-I can almost remember the farmer’s name.
His barn backed on that meadow. There it is,
titanium white, one dab. The hint of steeple,
filaments of brush-hairs, barely there,
must be the Presbyterian church.
Would that be Miss Gillespie’s house?
Those particular geese and cows
are naturally before my time.

A sketch done in an hour, “in one breath,”
once taken from a trunk and handed over.
Would you like this? I’ll Probably never
have room to hang these things again.
Your Uncle George, no, mine, my Uncle George,
he’d be your great-uncle, left them all with Mother
when he went back to England.
You know, he was quite famous, an R.A….

I never knew him. We both knew this place,
apparently, this literal small backwater,
looked at it long enough to memorize it,
our years apart. How strange. And it’s still loved,
or its memory is (it must have changed a lot).
Our visions coincided-“visions” is
too serious a word-our looks, two looks:
art “copying from life” and life itself,
life and the memory of it so compressed
they’ve turned into each other. Which is which?
Life and the memory of it cramped,
dim, on a piece of Bristol board,
dim, but how live, how touching in detail
-the little that we get for free,
the little of our earthly trust. Not much.
About the size of our abidance
along with theirs: the munching cows,
the iris, crisp and shivering, the water
still standing from spring freshets,
the yet-to-be-dismantled elms, the geese. 

August 14, 2014

Brooklyn, 1974

August 14, 2014

quentintortellini:

History Parallels

1st image: 1967 Newark Riots

2nd image: 2014 Ferguson Protests

3rd image: 1964 Harlem Riots

4th image: 2014 Ferguson Protests

(via tonyinthesky)

August 14, 2014
lensblr-network:

Cat enjoying the views
by fracama  (fracama.tumblr.com)

lensblr-network:

Cat enjoying the views

August 14, 2014

August 13, 2014

August 13, 2014
nevver:

Design Crush

nevver:

Design Crush

August 13, 2014

August 13, 2014

August 13, 2014

August 13, 2014

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