woensdag 8 juni 2011
Multiculturalism for Steampunk: FF: I Do (Love This Dress)
Multiculturalism for Steampunk: FF: I Do (Love This Dress): "A pleasantly purple wedding kaftan that would have been worn by a Jewish-Turkish bride (Magnes Collection) Until recent years (when Septe..."
zondag 13 februari 2011
Theo Jansen
Kunst gemaakt van wegwerpartikelen en alledaags materiaal blijft fascinerend. Kinetisch kunstenaar-uitvinder Theo Jansen maakt lopende strandbeesten van PET-flessen, plakband en het soort pvc-buizen waar mijn broers en ik vroeger mee pijltjes gingen schieten. Voortgedreven door de wind op het strand lijken het inderdaad levende wezens.
Meer schoons is te vinden op de website van Theo Jansen.
Meer schoons is te vinden op de website van Theo Jansen.
zaterdag 1 januari 2011
dinsdag 16 maart 2010
donderdag 21 januari 2010
Funeral Blues van W.H. Auden
Voor Arjen Grolleman, R.I.P. Verdomme!
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
zondag 3 januari 2010
vrijdag 2 oktober 2009
Love In The Asylum van Dylan Thomas
A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds
Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds
Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.
She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies
She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.
And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds
Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds
Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.
She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies
She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.
And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
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