"...there was a sweet confusion in Yura's soul, blissfully delirious, mournfully enraptured" - Boris Pasternak
El Lissitzky, 1o Kestnermappe Proun, 1923

El Lissitzky, 1o Kestnermappe Proun, 1923

Ordnance Survey of Jerusalem

Published in 1865, the album features photographs by Sergeant James McDonald, and is the product of a study of Jerusalem’s waterworks, commissioned by the Secretary of the State of War and undertaken by the Royal Engineers. 

Source: University of St Andrews Special Collections

He held her as though she was a gift. Given to him in love. Something still and small. Unbearably precious. But when they made love he was offended by her eyes. They behaved as though they belonged to someone else. Someone watching. Looking out of the window at the sea. At a boat in the river. Or a passer-by in the mist in a hat.

He was exasperated because he didn’t know what that look meant. He put it somewhere between indifference and despair. He didn’t know that in some places, like the country that Rahel came from, various kinds of despair competed for primacy. And that personal despair could never be desperate enough. That something when personal turmoil dropped by at the wayside shrine of the vast, violent, circling, driving, ridiculous, insane, unfeasible, public turmoil of a nation. That Big God howled like a hot wind, and demanded obeisance. Then Small God (cosy and contained, private and limited) came away cauterised, laughing numbly at his own temerity. Inured by the confirmation of his own inconsequence, he became resilient and truly indifferent. Nothing mattered much. Nothing much mattered. And the less it mattered, the less it mattered. It was never important enough. Because Worse Things had happened. In the country that she came from, poised forever between the terror of war and the horror of peace, Worse Things kept happening.

So Small God laughed a hollow laugh, and skipped away cheerfully. Like a rich boy in shorts. He whistled, kicked stones. The source of his brittle elation was the relative smallness of his misfortune. He climbed into people’s eyes and became an exasperating expression.

— Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

Hélio Oticica, Metaesquemas

J.D. Okhai Ojeikere
He is born in 1930 in the western part of Nigeria. One of his cousins advises him to buy a camera and teaches him what he needs to know. In his young days Ojeikere incessantly writes the Ministry Of Information, asking them to hire him as an “assistant in the dark room”. His tenacity is rewarded when in 1961 the first television station is founded.

At the eve of the decolonisation he is contacted by the West African Publicity agency where he pays his dues; soon after that he opens his own studio “Foto Ojeikere”. In 1967 he becomes an active member of the Nigeria Art Council, an organisation in charge of organising a festival of visual and living arts. This is an opportunity for Ojeikere to devote himself to Nigerian culture, to which he is deeply attached.

"Hairstyles" will be his most known collection, involving almost 1000 different hairstyles that give an image of the African woman. He finds these "sculptures for a day" on the street, at a marriage or at work. 

Source: Gallery 51

Vincent Michea

Mitch Epstein, New York Arbor

Ellen Gallagher, Morphia

Alfred Stieglitz, The Dancing Trees

Alfred Stieglitz, The Dancing Trees

William Carlos Williams

The rose is obsolete 
but each petal ends in 
an edge, the double facet 
cementing the grooved 
columns of air—The edge 
cuts without cutting 
itself in metal or porcelain—

whither? It ends—

But if it ends 
the start is begun 
so that to engage roses 
becomes a geometry—

Sharper, neater, more cutting 
figured in majolica— 
the broken plate 
glazed with a rose

Somewhere the sense 
makes copper roses 
steel roses—

The rose carried weight of love 
but love is at an end—of roses

It is at the edge of the 
petal that love waits

Crisp, worked to defeat 
plucked, moist, half-raised 
cold, precise, touching


The place between the petal’s 
edge and the

From the petal’s edge a line starts 
that being of steel 
infinitely fine, infinitely 
rigid penetrates 
the Milky Way 
without contact—lifting 
from it—neither hanging 
nor pushing—

The fragility of the flower 
penetrates space

Farhad Ahrarnia


Dearest, note how these two are alike:
This harpsicord pavane by Purcell
And the racer’s twelve-speed bike.

The machinery of grace is always simple.
This chrome trapezoid, one wheel connected
To another of concentric gears,
Which Ptolemy dreamt of and Schwinn perfected,
Is gone. The cyclist, not the cycle, steers.
And in the playing, Purcell’s chords are played away.

So this talk, or touch if I were there,
Should work its effortless gadgetry of love,
Like Dante’s heaven, and melt into the air.

If it doesn’t, of course, I’ve fallen. So much is chance,
So much agility, desire, and feverish care,
As bicyclists and harpsicordists prove

Who only by moving can balance,
Only by balancing move.

 Michael Donaghy
Things change every day, Mr Nakata. With each new dawn it’s not the same world as the day before. And you’re not the same person you were, either.- Haruki Murakami, Kafka On The Shore

Things change every day, Mr Nakata. With each new dawn it’s not the same world as the day before. And you’re not the same person you were, either.

- Haruki Murakami, Kafka On The Shore