Lucie Rye

Read about this great dame on the VADS essay site set up for her in a nice timeline format and with lots more great images. The best spot to check out images of her work is through Galerie Besson, which represented her.

images...
1.  Lord Snowdon’s photograph of Lucie’s hands
2.  Lucie Rie and Hans Coper pottery upstairs at 18 Albion Mews in 1950.
3. Lucie sunbathing in the 1960s. Photo by Stella Snead.
4. pink porcelain conical bowl, c. 1978.
5. Lucie, around 1935, in her Vienna studio.
6.  Page from her Vienna-days glazing notebook, 1920s
7.  The group of vases were on display at London’s Berkeley Gallery, 1962. Photo by Jane Gate.
8. Lucie potting in the 1980s.
9.  Portrait of Dame Lucie by Snowdon

All via GravelandGold

From Javier Serena

Sister Ship

"...You'll never know the life you don't choose. We'll only know that whatever that sister life was, it was important and beautiful and not ours. It was the ghost ship that didn't carry us. There's nothing to do but salute it from the shore."

 -- Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things

The Blue House

     It is night with glaring sunshine. I stand in the woods and look towards my house with its misty blue walls. As though I were recently dead and saw the house from a new angle.
     It has stood for more than eighty summers. Its timber has been impregnated, four times with joy and three times with sorrow. When someone who has lived in the house dies it is repainted. The dead person paints it himself, without a brush,  from the inside.
     On the other side is open terrain. Formerly a garden, now wilderness. A still surf of weed, pagodas of weed, an unfurling body of text, Upanishades of weed, a Viking fleet of weed, dragon heads, lances, an empire of weed.
Above the overgrown garden flutters the shadow of a boomerang, thrown again and again. It is related to someone who lived in the house long before my time. Almost a child. An impulse issues from him, a thought, a thought of will: “create. . .draw. ..”  In order to escape his destiny in time.
     The house resembles a child’s drawing.  A deputizing childishness which grew forth because someone prematurely renounced the charge of being a child. Open the doors, enter! Inside unrest dwells in the ceiling and peace in the walls. Above the bed there hangs an amateur painting representing a ship with seventeen sails, rough sea and a wind which the gilded frame cannot subdue.
     It is always so early in here, it is before the crossroads, before the irrevocable choices. I am grateful for this life!  And yet I miss the alternatives. All sketches wish to be real.
     A motor far out on the water extends the horizon of the summer night. Both joy and sorrow swell in the magnifying glass of the dew. We do not actually know it, but we sense it: our life has a sister vessel which plies an entirely different route. While the sun burns behind the islands.

 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

-- Thomas Tranströmer, The Blue House.

(translated by Göran Malmqvist)

Sunday Tune

Found here

The Fire of Drift-wood

Devereaux Farm, near Marblehead

We sat within the farm-house old, 

Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, 

Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, 

 An easy entrance, night and day.

Not far away we saw the port, 

The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, 

The lighthouse, the dismantled fort, 

The wooden houses, quaint and brown.

We sat and talked until the night, 

Descending, filled the little room; 

Our faces faded from the sight, 

Our voices only broke the gloom.

We spake of many a vanished scene, 

Of what we once had thought and said,

Of what had been, and might have been, 

And who was changed, and who was dead;

And all that fills the hearts of friends, 

When first they feel, with secret pain, 

Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, 

And never can be one again;

The first slight swerving of the heart, 

That words are powerless to express,

And leave it still unsaid in part, 

Or say it in too great excess.

The very tones in which we spake 

Had something strange, I could but mark; 

The leaves of memory seemed to make 

A mournful rustling in the dark.

Oft died the words upon our lips, 

As suddenly, from out the fire 

Built of the wreck of stranded ships, 

The flames would leap and then expire.

And, as their splendor flashed and failed, 

We thought of wrecks upon the main, 

Of ships dismasted, that were hailed 

And sent no answer back again.

The windows, rattling in their frames, 

The ocean, roaring up the beach, 

The gusty blast, the bickering flames, 

All mingled vaguely in our speech.

Until they made themselves a part 

Of fancies floating through the brain, 

The long-lost ventures of the heart, 

That send no answers back again.

O flames that glowed!  O hearts that yearned! 

They were indeed too much akin, 

The drift-wood fire without that burned, 

The thoughts that burned and glowed within.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

(Found via evencleveland)

A. Ruiz Villar

A. Ruiz Villar

Nancy Spero

Images found here

Virginia Wade

Virginia Wade with her trophy after winning the Wimbledon women's singles championship in 1977.

Age: 67.
Appearance: Airbrushed. Out of history.
Who or what is Virginia Wade? Until last Sunday, the last British tennis player to win Wimbledon.
Huh? When? 36 years ago. Back in 1977.
Then how come I've never heard of her? Because journalists have forgotten she exists.
Really? Really. Wade has been written out of the headlines in several major newspapers.
Such as? On the front page of the Times today: "Murray ends 77-year wait for British win."
Ouch. And, on the front page of the Telegraph: "After 77 years, the wait is over."
Oof. And, on the front page of the Daily Mail: "Andy Murray ends 77 years of waiting for a British champion."
Jeez. Even the Daily Mail forgot about her win? Yep. Which is especially unforgivable, since they also published an interview with her, in which she told the paper: "You never forget how it feels to win Wimbledon."
Incredible. So where does the 77-year figure come from? That's the figure for the men's championships. The last British man to win before Murray was Fred Perry in 1936.
Meaning the real wait was actually just 41 years? No, in reality, British tennis fans were never made to wait at all. Dorothy Round Little won the women's singles – for the second time in her career – one year later, in 1937.
So there have been two British winners since? No, actually there have been four.
Four British women have won Wimbledon since Fred Perry? Yep. Partially deaf player Angela Mortimer won the championship in 1961, and underdog Ann Haydon-Jones beat legend of the sport Billie Jean King to win again in 1969.
This is a dark day for sports journalism, isn't it? Afraid so. But a good day for feminist writer Chloe Angyal, whose tweet "Murray is indeed the first Brit to win Wimbledon in 77 years unless you think women are people" has been re-tweeted, at time of writing, 9,425 times.
That's a lot, right? It is. But it only really counts when men re-tweet it.
Do say: "If Murray wins, he's British. If he loses, he's Scottish."
Don't say: "If Wade wins, she's forgotten."

Photograph: Pa/PA Archive/Press Association Ima
Text: The Guardian

Wonder Woman

Stills from Dara Birnbaum: Technology/ Transformation: Wonder Woman

One of the basic principles of every single art form has to do not with what's there- the music, the words, the movement, the dialogue, the paint - but with what isn't.  In the visual arts it's called the 'negative space' - the blank parts around and between objects, which is, ofcourse, every bit as crucial as the objects themselves. The negative space allows us to see the non-negative space in all its glory and gloom, its colour and mystery and light. What isn't there gives what's there meaning. IMAGINE THAT. 

-- Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things

Sunday Tune

The Girl With Many Eyes

“The Girl With Many Eyes
One day in the park
I had quite a surprise.
I met a girl
who had many eyes.

She was really quite pretty
(and also quite shocking!)
and I noticed she had a mouth,
so we ended up talking.

We talked about flowers,
and her poetry classes,
and the problems she'd have
if she ever wore glasses.

It's great to know a girl
who has so many eyes,
but you really get wet
when she breaks down and cries.”

― Tim Burton

Image from here

Tickled Pink

Bernadette Pascua

Bernadette Pascua

Pink Cake

“I want to dance, laugh, eat pink cakes, yellow cakes, drink thin, sharp wine. Or an indecent story, now - I could relish that. The older one grows the more one likes indecency.”

― Virginia Woolf, Monday or Tuesday

Vanessa Bruno

vanessa bruno s/s 12
collection athé via montmarte

Found here

BLAST and image by Annie Wood Besant via here

Pink Pots

I seem to have amassed a collection of pink pot images on my desk top...I don't recall how I saved so many! I think it's a good thing though...

1. Lucie Rie
2. Ani Kasten
3. Jo Nakamura
4. Aniek Meeldijk
5. Cécile Daladier
6. Rachel Boxnboim
7. Takuro Kuwata
8. Thaddeus Wolfe

Calder

Alexander Calder: American Legend on Nowness.com

love a bit of Calder...

haha!
John Baldessari

Emilie Lindsten

Textural studies of the landscape and it's surfaces by Emilie Lindsten.