Keith Haring, Untitled, 1985.

Visions of Johanna - Bob Dylan

Inside the museums, Infinity goes up on trial

Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while
But Mona Lisa must’ve had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles

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The rose is obsolete 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 
meets—nothing—renews 
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 
laboredness—fragile 
plucked, moist, half-raised 
cold, precise, touching


What


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 
unbruised 
penetrates space

Walker Evans, Subway Portraits, 1938-41

Farhad Ahrarnia

museumuesum:

Keith Haring, Untitled, 1982

natgeofound:

Women harvest wheat with sickles then bind it by hand in a field in 1956.Photograph by Franc and Jean Shore, National Geographic

Frank Stella



Vittorio Ciccarelli, Bookmarks

Machines

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