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@mirabile---visu

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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From: Mauro Staccioli. All'origine del fare, (exhibition view), Galleria Maurizio Corraini, June 5 – July 31, 2026 [Art: © Mauro Staccioli]
The family of N. Alimbekov, a farmer of the Stalin collective farm in the Taldıqorğan region, 1954.
Bridal veils from Lübbenau, Germany

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Christian Lacroix - couture fw05
Embroidered lace blouse from Bill Gibb's Spring/Summer collection, 1976
'Go Tobago', British Vogue, May 1976 / Norman Parkinson
She is the Gallery Girl. I know what that's about. I was the Gallery Girl. I tried To like it. It was important To pretend to be interested in being near artists and art As though proximity were tantamount To metonymy, which it isn't, not in real Life. What's metonymy In real life. You rub up Against something; some of its Truth and incompleteness Is transfered onto you; You carry it around n Your body. Maybe. Art. That fussed Trite shit rich people buy. When I worked upstairs From where Emma works I was afraid of what it meant To exist alongside somebody Else's idea of art. My heart Was breaking. I never got good At affecting the blank expression Of truly contemporary beauty. —Ariana Reines, Coeur De Lion

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Martha Gellhorn, Selected Letters
Resistance Traci Brimhall
Buttercream Joy Sullivan
Gloria T. Pomo, Native American artist and poet, California, 1964. Hansel Mieth
manish malhotra

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thehiddensphere
Eve Argues Against Perfection
by Diane Lockward
And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat. -- Genesis 3:13 Beguiled, my ass. I said no such thing. You say I lost the gift of Paradise. I couldn’t lose what I never had. You say the serpent tempted me to eat. You omit that he entered the Garden on two legs and walked like a man. And here’s what your story always ignores: I had pure gold, rare perfume, precious stones, but Adam hadn’t touched me all those years. Perfection in the Garden didn’t mean that way. Not having it and not wanting it was God’s idea of perfection, not mine. So when that serpent strolled up to the tree, all upright and fine, he threw off the balance, and I began to pray, Oh, let him be mine. When he held out the apple, so round and lush, when he stroked it to a keen red glow, I didn’t fall to temptation -- I rose to it. I ate that apple because I was hungry. I wanted what lay outside of Paradise, a world without the burden of perfection. Now you call all sinful women my sisters. I say, let them claim their own damn sins. The apple may not be perfect, but it’s mine.