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beamishthing · 2 years
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Ten, 15, 20 years ago, there was a sense that saying political stuff in lyrics or talking about it in magazines had some significance. Now if you stray to the political, you get lost in a fast-moving stream, and if you stay within the realm of the personal, you feel insignificant. Art’s ability to engage in any significant way has changed. There’s a sense of paralysis when you watch this theatre of the absurd going on, politically speaking, and it doesn’t seem as if you can put your soul into that theatre, because that theatre has no soul. The subversion of truth and reality that we’re witnessing at the moment means that it would be dangerous for art to engage in them. It’s fucked up. - Thom York on why we can't have meaningful political art anymore.
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beamishthing · 3 years
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unfinished study 
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beamishthing · 3 years
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The wind giant.  From Around a Toadstool Table by Rowena Bennett, 1930.
The four winds, wind spirits, and other strange winds of yesteryear.
Wondering about this post?  Wait for the dissertation (TBA). For now:  Weblog ◆ Books ◆ Videos ◆ Music ◆ Etsy
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Martyn Brewster (British, b. 1952)
Night Music, 1998
Oil on canvas
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Tulips   -   Sven Ljungberg
Swedish, 1913–2010
Oil on canvas,  62 x 71 cm,
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Cardiff Castle
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Cardiff Castle
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beamishthing · 3 years
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Barbara Weir (Aboriginal, b. 1945)
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Daniel Mijtens the Younger (after Anthony van Dyck) - Danaë receiving the golden shower (c. 1675). Detail.
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Hermine Freiin von Preuschen (German, 1854 - 1918): Blooming yucca and prickly pear cactus and “Ma serre, Nice”, laurel branches and white lilies in a southern greenhouse (1890) (via Dorotheum)
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Skulls boiling in a cauldron. William Hogarth. The reward of cruelty. 1751. Engraving, detail. 
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Geraldine Girvan (Scottish, b. 1947, Derby, England) - Tortoiseshell Cat and Poppies, 2008, Paintings: Oil on Linen
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beamishthing · 3 years
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Il y a des hivers de l’âme et des brumes sans répit, des ombres qui passent entre le temps qui nous reste et la joie qui nous échappe.
Il y a des hivers de l’âme où tout croule dans le grand froid qui s’empare de nos rêves.
Il y a des hivers de l’âme et des petits matins sans fond qu’on traverse à coups de rames et les mots se muent en avirons de fortune, en barcasses pour Prométhée – le feu qu’on vole, le foie qu’on nous dévore, les grands vautours noirs qui tournent et puis nous qui construisons des nids pour nos mirages…
Adeline Baldachinno - 33 poèmes composés dans le noir
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beamishthing · 3 years
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René Portocarrero (Cuban, 1912-1985), Santa Barbara, 1963. Gouache, brush and ink, and grey wash on heavy card, 34.6 x 34.4 cm.
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beamishthing · 3 years
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René Portocarrero 
Cuban 1912-1986
Catedral en azul, 1961
Oil on canvas  33¼ x 23¼ in. | 84.4 x 59 cm.
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beamishthing · 3 years
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A silent hallucination, Alex Gerasev
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