Whenever I see weed in the city overcoming abandoned pavement, I try to smile. Weeds made me think just now of Richard Wright in Native son saying something about reality of oppression trying to strangle people like weeds growing up from under stones and how poetic that sentiment was to a seventeen-year-old me when extended beyond the terms of race, speaking to the undertones of the struggle of existence. Some people are weeds; some are fucking gems: from every stripe and walk, in my book most days.
As a boy, I would hoard Art Nouveau illustrations in secondhand copies of the classics. At first, it was the woodcuts in The Collected Works of Jules Verne; it was all over for me when I found Maxfield Parrish. I'm a sexist pig I guess; but these pinups are all so dreamy, even yet.
People seem to comment that the process of this work must be maddening, but I could see how, after a couple of coffees, it would be so soothing.
The Japanese apparently went through a postcard-craze phase. I recommend spending a minute flipping through these for inspiration. I want big-ass giclées of all of them.
If I were here, my neck would hurt.
Solitary bees make hives for one, but the make them out of fucking flowers.
I don't remember which particular image it was that made me bookmark this guy's photo account late one night awhile ago, but I'm glad I did. Look at this guy's stuff.
More paintings of ladies (I'm such a gender-colonialist, I know. Like Ben Gazzara said, "They're beautiful girls. What's the matter with tits?"). Ahem. William-Adolphe Bouguereau!
Staff Benda Bilili. I love this song.
This umbrella has drum pad for when it rains, what with it being an umbrella and all.
Some pickchers.
Zhou Fan.
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