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جوری که دنیا رو میبینم. Contact : @Dimitte
William S. Burroughs at his typewriter. Paris, 1962.
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Käthe Kollwitz, At the Doctor’s, sheet 3 of the series »Images of Misery«, 1908/1909, black crayon on Ingres paper.
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Käthe Kollwitz, The Volunteers, sheet 2 of the series »War«, 1921/1922, woodcut.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Call of Death, sheet 8 of the series »Death«, 1937, crayon lithograph.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Death seizes a Woman, sheet 4 of the series »Death«, 1934, crayon lithograph.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Young Girl in the Lap of Death, sheet 2 of the series »Death«, 1934, crayon lithograph.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Departure and Death, 1923, crayon lithograph (transfer).
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Käthe Kollwitz, Death, Woman and Child, 1910, line etching, drypoint, sandpaper and vernis mou with imprint of laid paper and Ziegler's transfer paper.
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My whole life is stretching out in an unbroken morning. I write from scratch each day. Each day a new world is created, separate and complete, and there I am among the constellations, a god so crazy about himself that he does nothing but sing and fashion new worlds. Meanwhile the old universe is going to pieces. The old universe resembles a busheling room in which pants are pressed and stains removed and buttons sewn on. The old universe smells like a wet seam receiving the kiss of a red-hot iron. Endless alterations and repairs, a sleeve lengthened, a collar lowered, a button moved closer, a new seat put in. But never a new suit of clothes, never a creation. There is the morning world, which starts from scratch each day, and the busheling room in which things are endlessly altered and repaired. And thus it is with my life through which there runs the sewer of night. All through the night I hear the goose irons hissing as they kiss the wet seams; the rinds of the old universe fall on the floor and the stench of them is sour as vinegar.
__Henry Miller, Black Spring (1936).
Eleni Karaindrou - Adagio From Landscape in the Mist.
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"Thor Battering the Midgard Serpent", 1790, Henry Fuseli.
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__گل‌ها پژمرده‌اند، مادر. گویی هزاران زمستان بر آنها گذشته است. کجایِ کار از حرکت ایستادم که این‌گونه بیگانه با خویش در جای خود خشکیده‌ام؟ بی‌امید، بی‌آینده، بی‌خود. گویی زمان از من گذر کرده است. کجاست رویاهایم؟ کجاست آن آینده‌ی روشن در تخیلم؟ کجاست آن عزیمت بزرگ؟ گویی صدسال است این‌جایم؛ احاطه شده توسط این اشیاء که بیگانگی‌ام را به رخ می‌کشند؛ اشیایی که نشانی از ضعف من، سستی و حماقت من‌اند. همه را کُشتهام، همه‌ی کِشته‌ها را کُشتهام و این پیکرهای پوسیده، عطر تعفّن رویاهایم را می‌پراکنند.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Bread!, final version, 1924, crayon lithograph (transfer).
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Käthe Kollwitz, Unemployment, 1909, line etching, drypoint, aquatint, sandpaper and soft ground with imprint of Ziegler's transfer paper.
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Käthe Kollwitz, The Sacrifice, sheet 1 of the series »War«, 1922, woodcut.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Death on the Road, sheet 5 of the series »Death«, 1937, crayon lithograph.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Death seizes the Children, sheet 3 of the series »Death«, 1934, crayon lithograph.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Woman entrusts herself to Death, sheet 1 of the series "Death", 1934, crayon lithograph.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Death and young Man, gliding upwards, c. 1922/1923, black crayon, blotted, on drawing paper.
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Käthe Kollwitz, Farewell, 1910, charcoal, blotted, on Ingres paper.
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"Despair Intimate", On Being An Angel, Francesca Woodman.
[Will l ever be free from you?]
There is, strictly speaking, neither unselfish conduct, nor a wholly disinterested point of view. Both are simply sublimations in which the basic element seems almost evaporated and betrays its presence only to the keenest observation. All that we need and that could possibly be given us in the present state of development of the sciences, is a chemistry of the moral, religious, aesthetic conceptions and feeling, as well as of those emotions which we experience in the affairs, great and small, of society and civilization, and which we are sensible of even in solitude. But what if this chemistry established the fact that, even in its domain, the most magnificent results were attained with the basest and most despised ingredients? Would many feel disposed to continue such investigations? Mankind loves to put by the questions of its origin and beginning: must one not be almost inhuman in order to follow the opposite course?
__ In the opening section of the book "Human, All Too Human" entitled "Of first and last things", Nietzsche's.
"The Shepherd’s Dream, from Milton's ‘Paradise Lost’ ", 1793, Henry Fuseli.
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Head of a Damned Soul from Dante's "Inferno," 1778, Henry Fuseli.
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Thomas Burke, The nightmare after Fuseli, published in London by R. J. Smith, 1783.
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