install
  1. rrosehobart:

    Jugend - 1903

    : bernardperroud.com

    (via artdisaster)

  2. supersonicelectronic:

    Soey Milk.

    Recent paintings and drawings by the spectacular Soey Milk.  She also has a Tumblr.

    Read More

  3. Dancing on my own

    You hold her in your arms, your mannerisms and gestures are missing the tenderness I have come to love and adore but you are still holding her close. 

    At that distance I know she can smell your musky aftershave, see the slight crook of your teeth, the mole on the right nostril. At this proximity you are unknowingly letting her stomp all over what I find dear. You are inviting her into my world, her 9 inch stilettos slipping on the iced surface of this fragile haven I have built for myself. 

    How dare you. Your large hand on the small of her back, that sunny complexion looking so right against the glistening beige of her stunning dress. Your mouth is forming that amused smile, the little self-confident smirkof a man who can have everything. You are on top of the world and you know it, handsome. You abuse that power and you pretend to share it with us, naive girls yearning for an ounce of your attention, ready to bask in your limelight, ready to shine on your side, beautiful and worthy of being that girl who stole your heart.

    I feel invisible now, as if each time you look in my direction you’re looking straight through me. Your blue eyes so blissfully oblivious of that girl who used to be so special, that girl you held the night before, the one you promised a new life to without using so many words. You had me fooled Alfred Jones. You’d told me you loved me and I believed every word. Had you told me you’d take me up in the sky and find the perfect star, just for me, I would’ve only asked the time. I was your girl and you were my one and only, warming up the winter solitude and the snowy driveway to my house with your laugh and southern drawl in your voice. I wish it would be January forever because I have never felt so cold as I do on this spring night.

    I am tripping over my own feet, like I did when I was seventeen and alone at the prom. I was so envious then, watching you ,the prom king, twirling every popular girl around. You, the charming football captain with your badly done up tie and broken compliments which made you every girl’s sweetheart. 

    We all got drunk that night, on the cheap alcohol people smuggled in, doing shots underneath the white table cloths. To this day I don’t know, despite your assurances, your seemingly sincere words if you knew it was me you pressed against the wall in the warm darkness. Outside the school gym, our tongues awkwardly battling on no man’s land between our lips, our teeth clacking and my heart ready to jump out of my chest you squeezed flat with your heavy hands.

    I remember that night by the alcohol on your breath and my stupid teenage belief you liked me. I remember the midnight blue and porcelain pink skirts of ball gown dresses twirling around; sweet treats, stacks of almond, strawberry and cappuccino macaroons. Fine peonies in vases and little flower arrangements pinned to girls’ wrists. In retrospect that kiss was the most passionate moment of my life, exaggerated and thrown out of proportion by my teenage memory of that desire-filled body so eagerly committing to yours and entrusting you without any insecurity or defence mechanism screaming for me to retreat.

    It was starkly different from our affair years later when we met again in post grad school and you carried my books and arranged study sessions at the local coffee shop to spend time with me. We made love so tenderly with sentimental nonsense filling our minds, clouding our logic. Against better judgement we felt it was meant to be and as you breathed my name into my ear, hot air tickling the skin and raising goosebumps I felt it was the most sacred word in the dictionary. The way your hands covered me, exploring every curve and every imperfection binding me to you forever, you’ve learnt my body by heart and with closed eyes you could describe every detail. We speak in the daylight, we debate and argue but we truly learnt about each other in the comforting forgiveness of the night.

    Do I cross your mind when you kiss her? Do you remember the awkward teenager yearning to be touched by her life’s largest crush or do you remember me; the woman seemingly knowing what she wants, slowly lost to her own fairy tales and fantasy far away from the grey of the ordinary life.

    Or maybe you don’t think of me at all. Her flawless, full lips feel sweet against yours as I watch your hand hungrily groping her body, her large breasts pressed against your chest. She’s all I ever was and more, fitting ideally into that perfect life style you suit so well.

    On that prom night I wish I agreed to go in your car. Maybe, somewhere in the mess of sweaty limbs and heavy breathing I would’ve found my reason. If I had let you use my body that night I’m sure it would’ve hurt and it would mean no more than desperate release to your teenage boy’s self. You’d hold my thighs, bite my neck as you thrusted my body into the car’s door, my panties around my ankles and the most expensive dress I’ve ever worn crumpled around my waist. If only I would’ve let you, maybe you’d have no reason to seek me out after all these years. We would’ve been two drunk teens in the back of your car fucking for the first time. Full of  great expectations, trying out our best adults expressions to cover up for the gawkiness of it all, the oddity of the act alone. We would’ve been just that, a teenage memory, a prom night’s foolish mistake.

    Maybe then you wouldn’t need to hurt me the way you do now. I know I will find you back in my bed by the morning but I’m not the girl you’re taking home tonight. I will smell her sweet perfume on you mixed with the rushed post-sex shower as you’ll climb into the bed. You’ll kiss my nape and embrace me again, making me think this was all just a bad dream as you whisper those three words into my ear. And you know you can get away with it.

    But now I don’t exist. I’m amongst all these glamorous people, lost in the pounding waves of loud music, vibrating dance floor, the crowd of roaring, moving bodies, touching, rubbing, clutching. I’m here, with all this sparkle and all this splendour of passionate, living beings getting lost in the night. So painfully aware of how beautiful you look with someone else.

    I am alone. I am dancing on my own. 

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  4. In such ugly times, the only true protest is beauty.

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  5. The ability to draw is not born into an artist. The desire to draw is.

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  7. Glen Orbik   http://www.orbikart.com/

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  8. ideas for composition, based on Manet’s luncheon on the grass

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  9. myeyesareshutandclosed:

    johannes kahrs ”girl with the yellow wig”

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  10. Thanks buttermyfish! <3 I’m loving the t-shirt! 

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