@4 days ago with 113 notes
#Photography #Art #Matthew Genitempo #Bryan Schutaat #Portraiture #Landscape
If you’re in Austin, TX, try to make it along to see Motor Chronicles, a show of photographs by Matthew Genitempo and Bryan Schutmaat:
Very thrilled to announce the opening of MOTOR CHRONICLES, an exhibiton of new photographs by Bryan Schutmaat and myself.
Join us at 7PM Friday night, October 24th, for the opening reception at Farewell Books.
@1 week ago with 92 notes
#Art #Poetry #Robert Frost #Photography #Awoiska Van Der Molen
Love and forgetting might have carried them
A little further up the mountain side
With night so near, but not much further up.
They must have halted soon in any case
With thoughts of a path back, how rough it was
With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness;
When they were halted by a tumbled wall
With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this,
Spending what onward impulse they still had
In One last look the way they must not go,
On up the failing path, where, if a stone
Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself;
No footstep moved it.
— Robert Frost, “Two Look at Two”
Photographs from Sequester by Awoiska Van Der Molen.
@1 week ago with 66 notes
#Art #Photography #Prose #László Krasznahorkai #Nich Hance McElroy
Found on the tumblr of Nich Hance McElroy:
"In the tense silence the continual buzzing of the horseflies was the only audible sound, that and the constant rain beating down in the distance, and, uniting the two, the ever more frequent scritch-scratch of the bent acacia trees outside, and the strange nightshift work of the bugs in the table legs and in various parts of the counter whose irregular pulse measured out the small parcels of time, apportioning the narrow space into which a word, a sentence or a movement might perfectly fit. The entire end-of-October night was beating with a single pulse, its own strange rhythm sounding through trees and rain and mud in a manner beyond words or vision: a vision present in the low light, in the slow passage of darkness, in the blurred shadows, in the working of tired muscles; in the silence, in its human subjects, in the undulating surface of the metaled road; in the hair moving to a different beat than do the dissolving fibers of the body; growth and decay on their divergent paths; all these thousands of echoing rhythms, this confusing clatter of night noises, all parts of an apparently common stream, that is the attempt to forget despair; though behind things other things appear as if by mischief, and once beyond the power of the eye they don’t hang together. So with the door left open as if forever, with the lock that will never open. There is a chasm, a crevice."
- László Krasznahorkai, Satantango