victoria thorne

26.3.11

carl larsson's washstand

carl larsson's washstand here

(& a clothes horse, here, just in case you need one)

'the design service'

25.3.11

an art, a fortunate accident, a camp in the desert

"..Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two."

-Augustine

[via theue]

how grateful i am for the vision of s!

+ image found via the magnificent enthusiasm of hh, here

24.3.11

23.3.11

illuminating | 50 watts

this via completely magnificent 50 Watts here

to a friend

to share your art and your words the way you do!
i cannot thank you enough. please know how much
it meant. to go beyond being a patron of the arts,
to be a patron of hearts- reminding not to follow
the herd, to be true to what we know. to take the
time that you do for others, when others might
not. the art of caring for your fellow man: the
art of life itself. this is what you shared. it was
greatly and graciously appreciated. they heard.

with true thanks.

photo: peter beard

22.3.11

"I'm wearing the same dress. Branding."

i had to post this. when she said 'branding' (braaanding) and laughed, well...i paused it

for a minute and thought i'd share. anyone who can put that much into one little word

(branding. yep.) i can probably listen to for a bit. besides. the visuals, the juxtaposition,

the whole idea of what's going on here. and the dresses. yes. those two dresses...

via jenna

When the voices of children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.

‘Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Come, come leave off play, and let us away
Till the morning appears in the skies.’

‘No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,
And the hills are all cover'd with sheep.’

‘Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed.’
The little ones leapèd, and shoutèd, and laugh'd
And all the hills echoèd.

-wm. blake 1798

21.3.11

addo

carterjunk

20.3.11

notes

the reflection of the fire is sublime;

so, too, the simplicity of the kitchen

and the light! (those famous windows)

philip johnson

19.3.11

hiromi suzuki | not losing to the rain

hiromi suzuki is someone i've long admired.

her work has an ineffable grace, a charm and

beauty that eases quietly into your soul and

remains. it's happy, too; happy when it is

sometimes hard to be happy. i think there

must be a joy in her soul that works into

each piece of art she creates. if you stop

by here, you can see for yourself. first,

maybe, read Ame ni mo makezu, a poem

written by Kenji Miyazawa. i found it on

her site. (look, also, at books she's shared.)

ami ni mo makezu

not losing to the rain
not losing to the wind
not losing to the snow nor to summer's heat
with a strong body
unfettered by desire
never losing temper
cultivating a quiet joy
every day four bowls of brown rice
miso and some vegetables to eat
in everything
count yourself last and put others before you
watching and listening, and understanding
and never forgetting
in the shade of the woods of the pines of the fields
being in a little thatched hut
if there is a sick child to the east
going and nursing over them
if there is a tired mother to the west
going and shouldering her sheaf of rice
if there is someone near death to the south
going and saying there's no need to be afraid
if there is a quarrel or a suit to the north
telling them to leave off with such waste
when there's drought, shedding tears of sympathy
when the summer's cold, wandering upset
called a blockhead by everyone
without being praised
without being blamed
such a person
I want to become

--kenji miyazawa

photographs: hiromi suzuki

(of note: another translation of the poem ends

a bit differently. i suppose the real meaning

is, perhaps, somewhere in between the two.

"In times of drought, shed tears of sympathy.
In summers cold, walk in concern and empathy.
Stand aloof of the unknowing masses:
Better dismissed as useless than flattered as a Great Man.
This is my goal, the person I strive to become."

i love all of this, especially "cultivating a quiet joy...

count yourself last and put others before you
watching and listening, and understanding")

17.3.11

campers unite

why aren't there any good camp songs on youtube?

it would be so nice.

images: here & here & here

in the post

Biedermeier to Bauhaus: Sigrid Sangl

photographs: Barbara + René Stoeltie

16.3.11

at the market. at the toy store. (spring will turn to summer.)

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

e.e. cummings

14.3.11

a purpose which made him look towards the distant skies with hope

artists help japan

Having slept in a boat at Suma and Akashi, and having watched the sunrise over the island of Awaji, our master carried his staff to join Noin at Kisagata, Kenko in the mountains of Kiso, Saigyo at Futami, Jyakuren at Mount Kova, Sogi and Socho in the province of Echigo and Kensai at his cottage in Shirakawa. These people were long dead, but to our master, they were alive, and their living images invited and urged him to visit them. In short, even in his wanderings, our master had a purpose which made him look towards the distant skies with hope.

basho's last days

photography: michael kenna
via the fox is black

12.3.11

a mere woman

"Here's an interesting piece of ephemera, also involving Schocken, Hannah Arendt, and Kafka- this is the letter in which Arendt has Mr. Schocken personally take on the 'Kafka Kerfuffle' (as I am now calling it) because, once again, the person in question (Kurt Wolff!) doesn't want to do business with her, a mere editor (and one suspects, a mere woman as well)."

this is a marvelous, especially when read in full.
just go, now, if you can. it is via jacket mechanical, the
exceedingly fine blog of peter mendelsund.

i am truly hoping that mr. mendelsund is the one who will be redesigning the hannah arendt backlist. i started to read some of her work on the plane home, and it was only a small book i'd picked up as a gift for someone, and i think i got a little chocolate (not much, just a little, really. but darn) on it & the only thing is it was a white cover and beautiful and of course i needed to fess up when delivering the very small but hard-to-part-with gift. anyway, i hope to be reading far more arendt soon. encountering her again- so quickly after the chocolate on the plane mishap- in mr. m's magnificent blog was just too much not to pass on to you, my beloved reader. (who on earth has the patience to read a blog these days, if it is not one of the greats? i begin to wonder. well. i've always wondered.) so, if you stuck around long enough to read this probably soon to disappear blurb, thanks. really.

(did i once say i would only blog on sundays during lent? let's have this count as sunday. tomorrow is sunday, too. who knows?)

and, should i keep my lenten promise, the blogs on the right side of the page, just click them. they are always fine reads, true inspiration. that is what i mean when i mention the greats, those are some. pictures to the links sometimes seem to grow and grow, which is fine, but my technical expertise seems not to. how does one tame this part of blogger? if only i knew. (i do truly believe that code is poetry. if only i could write either!)

10.3.11

creamsicle logic

in the meantime: here's what

i saw as we blew out of town.

it was a joy.

9.3.11

i shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool...

love this collection.

have loved j. alfred
since i met him
in professor hanna's
class, c. 1977.

(sue hanna taught me more
about words than i
did imagine at the time)

this?
it's a departure, i
suppose, from the past,
but it also hearkens
back. like all
great collections that
will be remembered,
it looks forward.

i don't really read fashion
press (did for many years)
anymore, just know what
i like. that's that. i can only
imagine what's been said
about all of this.

well. i think this
is one for history,
a game changer.

that's my vote.