"What do I care about all this beauty, when every minute, every second, I must and am forced to know that even this tiny fly that is now buzzing near me in a ray of sunlight, even it participates in this banquet and chorus, knows its place, loves it, and is happy, while I alone am a castaway."
"They seem to delight in their mediocrity! Yet they dare to tackle Mozart, Schubert! They take up room: fat islands floating in the amniotic fluid of the notes. They imbibe temporarily, but do not understand what they are drinking. After all, people with a herd instinct hold mediocrity in high esteem. They praise it as having great value. They believe they are strong because they are the majority."
"I paint with my back to the world."
The linen hanging out to dry in the yard
Is my linen; I know it well.
Looking closer however I see
Darns in it and extra patches.
It seems
I have moved out. Someone else
Is living here now and
Doing so in
My linen.
"A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress."
"I'm a fountain of blood / In the shape of a girl / You're the bird on the brim / Hypnotised by the whirl / Drink me, make me feel real / Wet your beak in the stream"
"The first born got his world torn / I came out of the ice storm / This blood sword is my light source / At the white shores when the night falls / Was my life worth to cry for? / Off like ten pills, now I'm stillborn"
Agnès Varda
Béla Tarr
Nekojiru
Castro with Sartre and Beauvoir
Malevich with his students
