Category: Art

It’s supposed to be a deer..but it looks like Jack to me.

From Teagan White. via Designspiration

A dead Jack

And that’s ok. Because it’s not so bad.

Oh Vice. You are so awesome. So in this response to that OTHER video with 20 gorgeous models kissing for the first time in gorgeous clothes..this is 20 strangers from the street kissing each other for $33. And I gotta say…add a sappy song on top and I would love it JUST AS MUCH. Seriously. It’s still pretty awesome to see how it changes people.

See it here..I couldn’t figure out how to embed this one.


The older I get, the more I understand how tragic life can be, how little it takes to shift from one road to the next and how irrelevant it is to judge others on their blundering path through life. We all blunder at some point. I just finished watching Stories We Tell, a documentary about a girl, the director, who is in search of understanding her deceased mother and her living father, and her newly realized biological father, a result of an affair with a man who 30 years later still loved her to the depths of his core. You can tell. The story slowly unwinds through the articulate interviews with brothers and sisters and also, the written story as spoken by her father. This movie has a lot to say about love, life, and the search for truth of relationship or existence.

Much of the film is composed of interviews and vintage home movie footage, but some of the scenes are reinacted, with actors, which comes as a disappointment to me and what I thought was the directors search for truth. They seem misplaced in their attempts to recreate reality, going a step further than the spoken “truths” of those vocalizing their memories of the mother and the events that transpired. There is a scene in the film that is one of the more beautiful moments I’ve ever seen in a film though, and it’s really pure perfection of story, edit and sound track working in perfect harmony creating something that speaks so much louder than any one of it’s parts could ever reach.

It’s worth watching the film just for that minute..but if you don’’s this song below, Demon Host by Timber Timbre, playing and one by one each person who has been in the film up to this point is shown sitting in silence/thought with their faces bearing the weight of their memories. If ever there is truth, it is in that moment, on each of their faces.

The film is definitely worth a watch. You can get to it here. Stories We Tell.

The Silence of Dogs in Cars – Martin Usborne

I absolutely love this series of photos of dogs in cars. The artist Martin Usborne states that the series was shot in response to a childhood memory of being left in the car and feeling as if no one would ever come back for him, if perhaps he would be alone forever. While many of the images feel very much staged with perfect scenes and perfect lighting, it’s clear to me that the dogs weren’t given the agenda and have either settled in for the wait, or are anxiously fretting the return of their person. I really can’t say anything any better than this reviewer, on Yatzer.

Conveying Usborne’s preoccupation with the separation that exists both between humans and (other) animals and between ourselves, ‘The Silence of Dogs in Cars’ is a haunting portrait series of dogs as they sit and wait inside locked vehicles. Setting out to perform a cathartic experiment, the photographer re-enacted the fear that he couldn’t bear as a child. Over the course of more than forty images in the series, Usborne paired a variety of settings and cars to dogs, documenting their commanding reactions as they faced the same fate he did when he was young. Silence and solitude prevail as the canines’ expressions shift from sad to expectant, angry and dejected. Seemingly sheltered and protected, yet utterly vulnerable, they wait, trapped, appearing to be uncertain of what lies ahead.

However, in what appears to be a darker and arguably rather invigorating twist in the portrayal of a pictorial commonplace – the incessantly-photographed ‘man’s best friend’ – we also find a poignant series that hits close to home. Masquerading as animal photography, the series sees Usborne subtly shifting the focus away from his canine subjects, as he projects man’s worries, anxieties and deepest fears onto them. Honest and raw, the images convey an immediate emotional honesty that only animals can express. Behind their uneasy expressions and piercing stares, we recognize a realm of feelings that we usually suppress; the fear of the unknown, the fear of being alone and unheard. A fear universally felt but with no outlet to be expressed. In this vein, Usborne’s mesmerizing images are not so much about dogs but about those horrible feelings that inevitably arise in all of us from time to time.

Horrible feelings indeed. Some of these images brought such emotion to my heart I teared up immediately.

More photos and write up here on Yatzer.




I’ve been pinning a lot on Pinterest lately. Both under Maura G and RedCamper. It’s funny how things pop out …like life does, things get thrown at you when you need them most.


led me to this..

Warsan Shire – “For Women Who Are Difficult To Love” from MovingOn & StereoOpticon on Vimeo.

Which made me cry.

And then led me to this book of poems she wrote….

Which I look forward to receiving. That little scribble lead me down a path I’m thankful for.

Here is the authors website. Warsan Shire. 

Warsan Shire

I adore this series by artist Chino Otsuka. What looks like a straight photo is actually a digitally manipulated image of Chino inserting herself into an image take during her childhood. So adult woman stands next to child self. So, so beautiful. Tender. If only we could not only stand next to old self, but speak to them, or maybe better..have them speak to us.

Found on Facebook via a friend..but original source is here.

Chino Otsuka


Two student artists,  Ayako Kanda and Mayuka Hayashi of Musashino Art University in Japan,  created a series of portraits of X-Ray and CT images of embracing couples that is pretty beautiful. Even though it’s really not the body, the bones, that connects us to one another on a deep emotional level when we are in love, it’s interesting to see how our bodies shapes and awkward jutting bones and large heads and long gangly legs are able to accommodate one another to share a simple embrace. And that big vast black void in the middle, that’s where it’s all at. All that overwhelming contentment and love and fear and wonder and excitement and blind trust and feeling of connection is all right there in that black hole in the middle.  I found this quite beautiful and moving. I hope you do too.

You can read more about it here.

Beautiful Decay

Holy shit right?!

Pretty amazingly gross and awesome.

From here.

Nice hair


I watched this movie last night. The Last Tango in Paris. It’s an old one, 1972. When it came out it was a really big deal. A lot of controversy about the amount of sex and nudity in the film had people protesting and getting all puritan. The director Bernardo Bertolucci was eventually convicted of obscenity and jailed for 4 months and every copy of the film was ordered to be destroyed. Thankfully a few copies escaped and I got to watch Marlon Brando and Maria Schneider  rip my heart into shreds last night. I was going to try and explain how it made me feel, what it seemed to be saying, but then I found this review by Roger Ebert from 1972. Roger Ebert really was the king of film review, he succinctly says everything I felt about the film perfectly, and painfully. It’s worth a watch. And if you have Netflix Streaming you have exactly 4 days to watch it until they pull it down too. I suspect they will have the discs still though.

Roger Ebert - October 14, 1972

Bernardo Bertolucci’s “Last Tango in Paris” is one of the great emotional experiences of our time. It’s a movie that exists so resolutely on the level of emotion, indeed, that possibly onlyMarlon Brando, of all living actors, could have played its lead. Who else can act so brutally and imply such vulnerability and need?

For the movie is about need; about the terrible hunger that its hero, Paul, feels for the touch of another human heart. He is a man whose whole existence has been reduced to a cry for help — and who has been so damaged by life that he can only express that cry in acts of crude sexuality.

Bertolucci begins with a story so simple (which is to say, so stripped of any clutter of plot) that there is little room in it for anything but the emotional crisis of his hero. The events that take place in the everyday world are remote to Paul, whose attention is absorbed by the gradual breaking of his heart. The girl, Jeanne, is not a friend and is hardly even a companion; it’s just that because she happens to wander into his life, he uses her as an object of his grief.

The movie begins when Jeanne, who is about to be married, goes apartment-hunting and finds Paul in one of the apartments. It is a big, empty apartment, with a lot of sunlight but curiously little cheer. Paul rapes her, if rape is not too strong a word to describe an act so casually accepted by the girl. He tells her that they will continue to meet there, in the empty apartment, and she agrees.

Why does she agree? From her point of view — which is not a terribly perceptive one — why not? One of the several things this movie is about is how one person, who may be uncommitted and indifferent, nevertheless can at a certain moment become of great importance to another. One of the movie’s strengths comes from the tragic imbalance between Paul’s need and Jeanne’s almost unthinking participation in it. Their difference is so great that it creates tremendous dramatic tension; more, indeed, than if both characters were filled with passion.

They do continue to meet, and at Paul’s insistence they do not exchange names. What has come together in the apartment is almost an elemental force, not a connection of two beings with identities in society. Still, inevitably, the man and the girl do begin to learn about each other. What began, on the man’s part, as totally depersonalized sex develops into a deeper relationship almost to spite him.

We learn about them. He is an American, living in Paris these last several years with a French wife who owned a hotel that is not quite a whorehouse. On the day the movie begins, the wife has committed suicide. We are never quite sure why, although by the time the movie is over we have a few depressing clues.

The girl is young, conscious of her beauty and the developing powers of her body, and is going to marry a young and fairly inane filmmaker. He is making a movie of their life together; a camera crew follows them around as he talks to her and kisses her — for herself or for the movie, she wonders.

The banality of her “real” life has thus set her up for the urgency of the completely artificial experience that has been commanded for her by Paul. She doesn’t know his name, or anything about him, but when he has sex with her it is certainly real; there is a life in that empty room that her fiance, with all of his cinema verite, is probably incapable of imagining.

She finds it difficult, too, because she is a child. A child, because she hasn’t lived long enough and lost often enough to know yet what a heartbreaker the world can be. There are moments in the film when she does actually seem to look into Paul’s soul and half-understand what she sees there, but she pulls back from it; pulls back, finally, all the way — and just when he had come to the point where he was willing to let life have one more chance with him.

A lot has been said about the sex in the film; in fact, “Last Tango in Paris” has become notorious because of its sex. There is a lot of sex in this film — more, probably, than in any other legitimate feature film ever made — but the sex isn’t the point, it’s only the medium of exchange. Paul has somehow been so brutalized by life that there are only a few ways he can still feel.

Sex is one of them, but only if it is debased and depraved — because he is so filled with guilt and self-hate that he chooses these most intimate of activities to hurt himself beyond all possibilities of mere thoughts and words. It is said in some quarters that the sex in the movie is debasing to the girl, but I don’t think it is. She’s almost a bystander, a witness at the scene of the accident. She hasn’t suffered enough, experienced enough, to more than dimly guess at what Paul is doing to himself with her. But Paul knows, and so does Bertolucci; only an idiot would criticize this movie because the girl is so often naked but Paul never is. That’s their relationship.

The movie may not contain Brando’s greatest performance, but it certainly contains his most emotionally overwhelming scene. He comes back to the hotel and confronts his wife’s dead body, laid out in a casket, and he speaks to her with words of absolute hatred — words which, as he says them, become one of the most moving speeches of love I can imagine.

As he weeps, as he attempts to remove her cosmetic death mask (“Look at you! You’re a monument to your mother! You never wore makeup, never wore false eyelashes!”), he makes it absolutely clear why he is the best film actor of all time. He may be a bore, he may be a creep, he may act childish about the Academy Awards — but there is no one else who could have played that scene flat-out, no holds barred, the way he did, and make it work triumphantly.

The girl, Maria Schneider, doesn’t seem to act her role so much as to exude it. On the basis of this movie, indeed, it’s impossible to really say whether she can act or not. That’s not her fault; Bertolucci directs her that way. He wants a character who ultimately does not quite understand the situation she finds herself in; she has to be that way, among other reasons, because the movie’s ending absolutely depends on it. What happens to Paul at the end must seem, in some fundamental way, ridiculous. What the girl does at the end has to seem incomprehensible — not to us; to her.

What is the movie about? What does it all mean? It is about, and means, exactly the same things that Bergman’s “Cries and Whispers” was about, and meant. That’s to say that no amount of analysis can extract from either film a rational message. The whole point of both films is that there is a land in the human soul that’s beyond the rational — beyond, even, words to describe it.

Faced with a passage across that land, men make various kinds of accommodations. Some ignore it; some try to avoid it through temporary distractions; some are lucky enough to have the inner resources for a successful journey. But of those who do not, some turn to the most highly charged resources of the body; lacking the mental strength to face crisis and death, they turn on the sexual mechanism, which can at least be depended upon to function, usually.

That’s what the sex is about in this film (and in “Cries and Whispers”). It’s not sex at all (and it’s a million miles from intercourse). It’s just a physical function of the soul’s desperation. Paul in “Last Tango in Paris” has no difficulty in achieving an erection, but the gravest difficulty in achieving a life-affirming reason for one.


The Last Tango in Paris