marvelandwhimsy:

x

asylum-art:

David Altmejd Art

artist on tumblr

David Altmejd is a sculptor born in Montreal, Canada. He currently lives and works in New York.

“When I work, the body is like a universe where I can lose myself. It is a metaphor for the landscape, nature and the mountains”, Altmejd has said. The Healers (2008), another sculpture over two metres high which is formed of wood, foam, plaster and burlap, shows wildly overlapping figures and figurative fragments – hands, wings, kneeling and kissing figures, rendered as if in the midst co-dependent, sexually charged physical agony.
Equally reminiscent of baroque compositions representing the descent of the cross as well as of 19th-century public bronze sculptures commemorating battle massacres, Altmejd’s elaborate tableau, mixing handmade craft with the illusion of a digital freeze-frame palimpsest, evokes a mood of constant alchemical mutation.

(via sirenofthedark)

Question of the Day

Today’s question asks for a phrase that describes you year so far.

I’m not feeling very creative at the moment so this will be a challenge, but I’m thinking something like “now seeking personal fulfillment.” I crossed another dream off my bucket list recently, but I’m still looking for some meaning in it all.

Click here for last year’s answer.

I have some time, if not this year maybe the next. Write a phrase to describe your year so far?

emoman98:

dont even bother sending me anon hate because i probably agree with you

(Source: kimpissible, via thatssorivera)

(Source: zeroro, via celestialmagick)

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.
I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.
The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.
"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"
Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.
Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.
I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.
But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.
"No, I’m good," I said.
"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.
Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—
“Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.
Reader, I bought them all.

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

(via bookoisseur)

(Source: astronau-t, via st4rtedlate)

magictransistor:

August Sander. Showman with Performing BearBrothers, Circus People, The Man Of The Soil, The Artist’s Party, Boxers, Vagrants, Girl With Carriage, The Sage, Girl In Wagon (top to bottom). 1920s.

(via bacon-radio)

(Source: Spotify)

redeyednblue:

Photographer Eilon Paz just published a new book called Dust and Grooves, where he shot some of the largest vinyl collections in the world.

(via gentlemansscars)

gothamknowledge:

100% Chocolate Skulls, Anatomically Correct Human skull

I don’t think there needs to be a special reason to get this…

Question of the Day

Today’s question asks about what you can smell right now. 

Lemon. I just cut up a lemon to put it in ice water. 

Click here for last year’s answer. 

I’m just about to put my head down on my pillow so soon I will be smelling lavender. What can you smell right now?