The 773 number gave Louis Sitbon away before his profile did.
Martin Ansin, everything you do is a balloon.
Tom Hoops. He likes faces.
via yayeveryday.
Jacques Derrida. Paris. 12 September 1990.
“The philosopher should start by meditating on photography, that is to say the writing of light before setting out towards a reflection on an impossible self-portrait.”
Photographer: Steve Pyke.
John Searle. London. 9 July 1992.
“If you can’t say it clearly, you don’t understand it yourself.”
Photographer: Steve Pyke.
Jean Baudrillard. Paris. 6 December 1991.
“The form of my language is almost more important than what I have to say within it. Language has to do with synchronous with the fragmentary nature of reality. With its viral, fractal quality, that’s the essence of the thing! Its not a question of ideas- there are already too many ideas!”
Photographer: Steve Pyke.
One of my resident heads had Richard Avedon’s portrait photographs on the walls in his living room. Not this one of Ezra Pound, though.
via theswine, via phillipsjs.files.wordpress.com
The River-Merchant’s Wife
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.
Richard Avedon’s photographs of Bob Dylan, before and after he became too good for smiling.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, by Richard Avedon.
