“Fisherman’s kitchen” textile art
More on my BLOG
Jojo Todynho by Gui Paganini for Harper's Bazaar Brazil. Styled by Thiago Setra. Beauty by Renata Brazil.
Me: *sees a couple*
Me: so which one of you is airplane dog and which one of you is wisdom dog
Diane Meyer - Time Spent That Might Otherwise Be Forgotten, 2011-2016
Artist’s statement:
“In the series, cross stitch embroidery has been sewn directly into family photographs. The images are broken down and reformed through the embroidery into a hand-sewn pixel structure. As areas of the image are concealed by the embroidery, small, seemingly trivial details emerge while the larger picture and context are erased. I am interested in the disjunct between actual experience and photographic representation and photography’s ability to supplant memory. By borrowing the visual language of digital imaging with an analog process, a connection is made between forgetting and digital file corruption. The tactility of the pieces also references the growing trend of photos remaining primarily digital- stored on cell phones and hard drives, but rarely printed out into a tangible object.”
Hozier is just like "I'm a corpse in the woods I have a complicated relationship with religion and I'm tastefully horny" and we all collectively went "same"
be softer with you.
you are a breathing thing. a
memory to someone.
a home to a life.
Nayyirah Waheed (via ctenar)
i’ve been thinking a lot about storytelling, (of late-night sharing. cheesecake between coffee mugs: a staple to every conversation) — of swapping memories as a way of preservation, as a way to remember a moment in another way, growing another root. i’ve been thinking much about space, conceptualizing home. as we sweep through the attic, the basement, as i see all of my old belongings in the hot, bright light of ninety-degrees and humid-as-hell new york — i’m feeling, somehow and miraculously secure. within my body, within myself, within the bases of my parents, the hatchet-wound of my existence. we are all just human and looking for relief, for small moments with each other that feel like a hand above the heart, without the sentimentality of touch. a table between us, piles of take-out containers scattering the tables. someone always wanting the egg drop soup, too hot for too long in our styrofoam cups, spilling onto our sweating arms. the lot of us stretched on a makeshift dining table unfolded in the middle of the driveway, everyone leaning into their chairs, talking absent-mindedly of bees and hornets. we have never been certain people, or settled people, but i know where i come from, and i know that this is, this has always been, home. that these moments have saved me. that these are the stories that i will pass down to my children, and my children’s children. of cheesecake and coffee. driving through the back roads until it’s dark, singing love songs with a seventeen year-old, a twenty-five year old, and myself at twenty, almost twenty-one — all of us missing someone, something. all of us full of something, someone. full, always. full of our stories. full of these remembrances, the sun so heavy that our tongues feel always new-wet.
