we want our film to be beautiful, not realistic

Oct 19, 2014

Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.
It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

‘A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap, 
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Oct 18, 2014 / 1,152 notes


Laurence Demaison

Even in the darkest parts of our mind could we ever come up with the intriguing and wonderful photography of Laurence Demaison. The French photographer and fine artist combines black and white photos with his own drawing and effected layers on top of the image, adding a ghostly dimension to the finished product. As Lens Culture puts it, “her photographs seem to bend light and time, distort the appearance of her own human body, and hold secret coded messages in their multiple reflections, refractions, visual repetitions, and semaphore-like gestures that become smears of light in darkness.

(via asylum-art)

Oct 18, 2014 / 3,738 notes


Samantha Keely Smith

Oct 18, 2014 / 5,990 notes

(via glo-soli)


Some days…
Oct 18, 2014 / 1,401 notes

Murakami’s Versailles classic. 
Oct 17, 2014 / 504 notes


Murakami’s Versailles classic. 


Ella Frances Sanders
Oct 10, 2014 / 3,393 notes

Rothko Chapel - Houston, Texas
Oct 9, 2014 / 13 notes


Rothko Chapel - Houston, Texas


Born on this day (09/25/1903): Mark Rothko.
"Untitled", 1969
Oct 9, 2014 / 500 notes


Born on this day (09/25/1903): Mark Rothko.

"Untitled", 1969


Mark RothkoUntitled (Black on Gray), 1969-70Acrylic on canvas172.7 x 162.6 cm
Oct 9, 2014 / 406 notes


Mark Rothko
Untitled (Black on Gray), 1969-70
Acrylic on canvas
172.7 x 162.6 cm