Dahling you simply must read this book! Itâs all about this devious little caterpillar who simply gorges himself on all manner of divine things
Acquired Stardust
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Dahling you simply must read this book! Itâs all about this devious little caterpillar who simply gorges himself on all manner of divine things

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Lydia Pettit (American, 1991) - Entry Points (2024)
Some of the 2010s-era Loki stans were annoying but some of them were very justified. They put Tom Hiddleston in handcuffs and a muzzle. Then they put him in chains and a collar. Then they had him look waifishly sad in a prison cell. Then they put him in handcuffs again. Then they chained him up again. Where else were teenage girls going to see that.
//
the walker house, r.m. schindler, 1936

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FIRST, WOMEN HEAD TO THE FACTORIES, LOSING THEIR FEMININE REFINEMENT, AND NOW THEY PICK UP BASEBALL BATS AND FIGHT TO THE DEATH TO SEE WHO CAN BE THE MOST MASCULINE.
A LEAGUE OF THEIR OWN (2022)
sketches
Self portrait for a zine my printmaking class is collaborating on. Will post my other pages whenever I get done with them
Of course, museums do not produce art; neither do they distribute art. They sacralize it. Itâs important to underline the connection between property and the sacred. To sacralize is to exclude; itâs to set something apart from the world, whether because it is sacred to an individual (âprivate propertyâ) or sacred to something more abstract (âartâ âGod,â âhumanity,â âthe nationâ). Any revolutionary regime changes existing forms of property, and the organization or reorganization of museums plays a crucial role in this process, since the forms of property that exist within museums represent the summit of the pyramid. They are the ultimate wealth that police protect, and that the industrious poor can only see on weekends.
Virtually all museums today operate in a way that produces and maintains hierarchy. By archiving, cataloging, and reorganizing the museumâs space, they draw a line between âmuseumâ quality and ânon-museumâ quality objects. But there is no ultimate contradiction between commoditized art and art considered inalienable and not to be sold, because they are simply two variations of the sacred as radical exclusion. The fact that these objects are surrounded by armed security and high-tech surveillance simply serves to underline to any visitor how much their own creative acts (songs, jokes, hobbies, diary entries, care for loved ones, and precious mementos) are of no particular significance, and therefore, that visitor will need to return to their non-museum life and continue to carry on their ânon-inessentialâ job producing and maintaining the structure of relations that makes museums possible. Much like the cathedrals they were meant to replace, museums are there to teach one oneâs place.
In the same way, the art worldâas the apparatus for the production of objects, performances, or ideas that might someday merit being sacralizedâ is based on the artificial creation of scarcity. In the way that police guarantee material poverty, the existence of the art worldâin its current formâcould be said to guarantee spiritual poverty. What, then, would an abolitionist project directed at the art world actually look like?
David Graeber and Nika Dubrovsky, "Another Art World, Part 3: Policing and Symbolic Order" (2020)
The beautiful art of Thomas Blackshear II

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When my son was about to turn two, strangers would offer condolences. Thereâs a collective cultural dread of toddlers, who get described more like animals than people. Kids in their "terrible twos," I was warned, are illogical, unregulated, and feral. "Good luck," people would say. "He'll grow out of it."
I'm lucky: My son is a very easygoing kid. But I remember the first tantrum he threw for me. He was standing by our front door and asked to go outside. So I opened the door and grabbed his shoes. But as soon as he stepped onto the porch, he pointed back into the house.
"Inside," he said.
"Okay," I said. I picked him up and brought him inside.
But as soon as I shut the front door, he pointed outside.
"Outside!" he said.
You know where this is going. We went back and forth, inside and outside, again and again. He got more frustrated. And I got more frustrated. Eventually he wound up straddling the threshold of our house, sobbing. When I tried to comfort him, he screamed at me. "You go wherever you want!" I said. He just got madder. I felt trapped, convinced heâd concocted the whole episode as a pretext to unleash his rage at me. It was ridiculous. I consoled myself with the thought that he was just being a toddler.
But later I kept thinking about him wailing at our front door, one foot inside, one foot outside. His misery wasn't unreasonable, or trivial, or silly. My son was experiencing the agony of wanting two things that were impossible to have at the same time. What a fundamentally human sorrow! My son wasn't being a toddler; he was being a person. Adults may not walk around howling, but that same pain rages within us. In that moment, as a father, I was powerless to solve my son's problem. I told him he could go wherever he wanted, but of course I was wrong. To be where he wanted was impossible.
Make Believe: On Telling Stories to Children by Mac Barnett
Bowl with Fish design , Iran, probably Kashan, late 13thâmid-14th century, stonepaste; black decoration under a transparent turquoise glaze
Iâll be using this screenshot constantly forever
âSwiss Knife Beetleâ â Victorinox Coleoptera
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i see a lot of art filled with plants, like, in the american art scene there seems to be a kind of general movement towards and appreciation of ruined structures being overtaken by nature. offices full of dead computers and leaves. walls with ivy. old factories crawling with new growth. a symbol of degrowth, of new futures that devour and reject colonial modernism, of a refutation of the tyranny over land. it's a nice sentiment.
but consistently im noticing something odd, which is that over and over the plants depicted in art are very familiar -- they're houseplants. pothos. monstera. calathea. zamioculcas. plants growing in the wrong place, at the wrong time, in the wrong climate, a mishmash of unrelated folks with far-flung origins symbolizing "natural" retaking of the modern world.
plants, specifically, that are directly tied to the legacy of colonialism. from northern africa. from southern america. from india. plants that were collected as curios during periods of direct imperialism. plants kept as trophies, plants sold at high prices. plants that are "exotic". that are beautiful. that are high-value. plants whose people got no payment for their capture.
they're the plants people in american colonial territory, who lack access to native plant community, see most often -- that is, other than "weeds". and so when these artists reach for the pure idea of plant, the concept of nature, these plants are their only blueprint. dragging with them all of the baggage of hundreds of years of empire.
it's incredible how much this changes the messaging of the image. dreams of ecological participation stained with a creeping theme of alienation from their native biosphere. the thumbprint of colonialism, clear as day. a hopeful vision of the future, kneecapped by its own symbology. hundreds of individual artists so alienated from their own ecosystems that even their fantasy of participation with nature is inextricable from colonialist trophies. trying to imagine reclaiming the world.
the fundamental problem on this website is that if a homeless person tried to talk to most of yâall youâd be scared out of your minds
see because people are actually seeing this i feel like i need to make it abundantly clear what i mean by this: in the united states context, the majority of social problems are just disappeared. the mentally ill are often relegated to their homes, to asylums (these still exist), to hospitals. the disabled, fat, and disfigured likewise. people called âcriminalâ disappear into the criminal punishment system and often never emerge.
if you live in any city in america, however, there are homeless people. they are the social problem that cannot be disappeared so easily. drive along a freeway outbound from the urban center to the suburbs and look into the trees. youâll see tents, tarps, evidence of human habitation. walk through a downtown, even in coldest winter, and youâll see bottles that werenât there yesterday and clothes inexplicably abandoned. people tend to either not look at these things or to look at them and name them garbage. eyesore. they donât consider what it would be like to carry everything you own on your back. how little energy you would have for recycling or cleaning up after yourself if you had been kicked out of your shelter at 7am that morning and now had to find a nook to hide out in to escape a -5F windchill. maybe you can go to a local public library, but maybe you canât because you twitch or smell bad or talk to yourself and people only look at you out of the corner of their eye so they know what description to give the armed security guard at the front desk.
when iâm talking about looking at your unhoused neighbor, iâm talking about looking at them first. iâm talking about smiling and waving and maybe striking up a conversation. iâm talking about offering to grab lunch. iâm talking about indulging them even when they make you uncomfortable.
on memory care floors in hospitals you often encounter the problem of nurses who have been taught how to engage patients with memory issues but who do not give proper patient care because it makes them uncomfortable. they donât want to lie or play pretend or do anything that takes them out of their very rigidly defined reality. an old man wakes up and tries to get out of bed because itâs time to feed the cows. he wonders where his wife is. it would make his nurse uncomfortable to tell him that his wife knew he needed some rest so she went out to feed the cows, so they tell him that his wife died five years ago and he doesnât have his farm anymore. they break his heart rather than allow him to live in a better time for a little while longer.
back in december a man sat across from me on the train who was clearly struggling. i started a conversation with him about his art he was holding, which he told me were illustrated childrenâs books in a language he had always known. it was a syllabary i certainly didnât recognize, and the illustrations werenât anything iâve seen in childrenâs literature, but we were suddenly both artists on the train. i showed him my journal and he complimented the pasting job on some of my collages. then he started to talk about angels. about his angel specifically, who had died and left him behind on earth. he missed his angel so much that he planned to commit suicide before christmas. i talked to him about his angel, and about love and grief and pain, all of which we could share. he began to call me jesus. i could have told him he was wrong, that i wasnât even into the abrahamic religions, etc., and it would have broken his heart. instead i walked with him up from the train stationâand got him through the armed transit cops who tried to stop him because he didnât have a ticketâand gave him a picture of a loving savior, and a world that would be better for having him in it. instead of hugging some faggot, he ended up hugging a jesus that loved him. it was an odd situation. it made me a little uncomfortable. it may have been one of the few instances of kindness that he got that day. it may have been the first time in a while that someone who wasnât unhoused or working the bread line actually started a conversation with him.
imagine if no one ever looked at you. donât say some cute shit about âoh, i wish no one ever perceived me.â no you donât. you wish you could control peopleâs perception of you. but what if people werenât only not looking at you, but they already thought they knew you. youâre twitching so youâre on something. youâre staring at nothing so youâre dumb. youâre asking for money or food so youâre a leech on society. youâre talking to yourself so youâre dangerous. they donât look at you but they know you. so they donât speak to you bc they already know what theyâre gonna find.
two and a half weeks ago my mom was found dead on the streets of san antonio. sheâd been homeless there for about 12 years. iâd only just gotten stable enough to reach out to her. the woman i contacted at the day home she went to every month to get a haircut, her nails done, and to wash her clothes said she was doing well, that she was clean, that she was very polite, that she was smart. she had two dogs that sheâd cared enough about to have microchipped. their names are fin and sophia. having those dogs probably made it so she couldnât get permanent housing, because most housing programs for the homeless donât allow them to bring pets. a lot of people choose to keep their pets rather than give them up as a condition of securing housing.
in denver, colorado i once met an unhoused man who had a masterâs degree in geophysics. his thesis was on magnetic wells and their affects of satellite orbits. he was a birdwatcher.
when you refuse to look at homeless people, or the things they leave behind (often are forced to leave behind by cops), you are actively participating in the disappearance of a population. do you think you wouldnât lose part of yourself if safety concerns made you nocturnal? if every time you got enough stuff to set up a good camp some suburbanite called the cops on your tent? would you not talk to yourself if no one else was speaking to you?
a lot of talk goes into the problem how easy it is to become homeless. one medical bill, one missed paycheck and your life is imperiled. well, there are a lot of people who are stepped over every day who already live your worst case scenario, and the simple fact is that the majority of people in the u.s. are too scared of having an uncomfortable or even perhaps scary interaction with an unhoused person to look at them. but i need yâall to know that you are not special. it isnât just the dirtiest, most addicted, most mentally ill homeless people who are left to die on the streets alone. it is all homeless people. people who wonât leave behind beloved pets, people who couldnât survive in academia, people who think theyâre being gangstalked, people who have jobs, people who have families. if you are one missed paycheck from homelessness, youâre also one catastrophic tragedy, one spark that catches in the apartment on the other side of your building, one chance encounter with the drug that just wonât let you go. not one goddamn person on this earth is better than the unhoused person they step over on the way to get their morning coffee, and i hope to fuck yâall figure that out before you find yourselves disappeared too.
if you actually want to change the fucking world, maybe start with looking your neighbors in the eye.