phantasmagoricpistols

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“Sorayama Space Park by AMKK” has been unveiled at Central Embassy in Bangkok, including a lifesized Tyrannosaur from Hajime Sorayama . See more here.

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I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again —

Georgia O’Keeffe, in a letter to Russel Vernon Hunter, from Georgia O’Keeffe: Art and Letters (via luthienne)

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Slice for you 🍞🔪 . . . #art #illustration #artist #instagram #instaart #food #bread #slice

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Tsuruko Yamasaki (Japanese, b. 1925), Untitled, 1959. Acrylic on tin, 182 x 180.5 cm.

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Denis Bowen (South African, 1921-2006), Advancing Planets, 1969. Mixed media on canvas, 100 x 100 cm.

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Henrique Oliveira (Brazilian, b. 1973), Untitled, 2007. Acrylic on canvas, 162 x 130 cm.

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When something reminds traumatized people of the past, their right brain reacts as if the traumatic event were happening in the present. But because their left brain is not working very well, they may not be aware that they are reexperiencing and reenacting the past- they are just furious, terrified, enraged, ashamed, or frozen.

Bessel Van Der Kolk, The Body Keeps The Score (via recoverypains)

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George Condo (American. b. 1957), Constellation Portrait, 2013. Acrylic, charcoal and pastel on linen, 184.2 × 186.7 cm.

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they want us to die slow.

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To pay attention to someone can be a political act.

Whitney Biennial artist Aliza Nisenbaum, whose portraits of undocumented immigrants will be featured in the 2017 Biennial, talks to Vogue.  (via whitneymuseum)

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Speedy Graphito (French, b. 1961), Comix trap, 2014. Spray paint on canvas, 122 x 123 cm

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Hey, Trauma.

Sometimes you just tickle the hairs on the back of my neck.

Sometimes you light my entire body on fire.

Sometimes you parrot ideas back to me from that otherworldly time: no good, no good, no good.

Sometimes you throttle me, leave me choking on my own voice.

Sometimes you flicker into my dreams, a demon on my chest.

Sometimes you are a ball of sensory bullshit, a malignant mass.

Sometimes you tuck me into a small little blanket and smother me.

Sometimes you rip my food right from me.

Sometimes you hide my food from me altogether.

Sometimes you surround me with food and watch me drown.

Sometimes you are a tiny peach pill.

Sometimes you are a bunch of online orders, a thoughtless escapade.

Sometimes you’ve been white and clear dust, crystals and vapor lined up on tables and rising from foil.

Sometimes you’ve been a fat, fleshy string between me and another cold, dead heart and our palms face each other until one palm is shifting, turning, leaving blotchy purple marks.

Sometimes you are void.

Sometimes you are a black hole.

Sometimes you are a solar system.

But so am I. 

Sometimes you are all I can see, the fabric draped over my entire fucking life, and I consider backing out of this whole thing altogether.

But sometimes I find my fist and I imagine your face, which is a constantly shifting landscape of faces in fragments I’ll always remember, and I know, if I had the chance now, I could (and would) knock out your fucking teeth. 

#ptsd #ptsd recovery #c-ptsd #trauma

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Luigi Boille (Italian, 1926-2015), Struttura libera, 1966. Oil on canvas, 116.00 x 90.00 cm

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“Traumatized people chronically feel unsafe inside their bodies: The past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort. Their bodies are constantly bombarded by visceral warning signs, and, in an attempt to control these processes, they often become expert at ignoring their gut feelings and in numbing awareness of what is played out inside. They learn to hide from their selves.

“The Body Keeps The Score” by Bessel Van Der Kolk (via not-painted-anymore)

#ptsd #trauma