Can art amend history? | Titus Kaphar
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDaldVHUedI&feature=youtu.be
Submitted August 15, 2017 at 09:07PM by Tamosauskas
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@PensivePost
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DDaldVHUedI&feature=youtu.be
Submitted August 15, 2017 at 09:07PM by Tamosauskas
via reddit http://ift.tt/2vZ5F1q
@PensivePost
YouTube
Can art amend history? | Titus Kaphar
Artist Titus Kaphar makes paintings and sculptures that wrestle with the struggles of the past while speaking to the diversity and advances of the present. I...
If we stopped watching the news, and stopped using social media, we'd see that day to day interactions with folks is positive. We'd also see that people, for the most part, get along just fine.
@PensivePost #RandomThoughts
@PensivePost #RandomThoughts
Word of Soul
Don't talk anymore my love
Just look at me
and you will understand
how I feel.
Look deep in my eyes
and you'll see your name,
my soul's broken mirror.
I love you more than you believe,
like you are my life,
my other half,
my subconscious guardian angel.
Look around you,
has anyone loved you more than I do?
Never cry my love
cause you'll make me bleed.
Always be happy
cause your smile is a source of life for me.
I breathe when you breathe.
But forgive me
for what I say.
I know you feel nothing.
For you I'm just a silly game
that you played with once
and now you hate
even to look at.
I'm sorry for my feelings
I know they drown you,
they don't set you free.
Come and tell me you hate me
that there's no other chance,
no fake hope.
Don't show me, but tell me.
And then I will leave
I swear I will leave you,
my endless pain.
It's not your fault,
I can't blame you
it's me who loves you.
Tell me your truth
and you'll never see your name in my eyes again,
cause I'll keep our past and my love
in the bottom of my heart
and I'll be gone...
@PensivePost #poetry by #vicky
Don't talk anymore my love
Just look at me
and you will understand
how I feel.
Look deep in my eyes
and you'll see your name,
my soul's broken mirror.
I love you more than you believe,
like you are my life,
my other half,
my subconscious guardian angel.
Look around you,
has anyone loved you more than I do?
Never cry my love
cause you'll make me bleed.
Always be happy
cause your smile is a source of life for me.
I breathe when you breathe.
But forgive me
for what I say.
I know you feel nothing.
For you I'm just a silly game
that you played with once
and now you hate
even to look at.
I'm sorry for my feelings
I know they drown you,
they don't set you free.
Come and tell me you hate me
that there's no other chance,
no fake hope.
Don't show me, but tell me.
And then I will leave
I swear I will leave you,
my endless pain.
It's not your fault,
I can't blame you
it's me who loves you.
Tell me your truth
and you'll never see your name in my eyes again,
cause I'll keep our past and my love
in the bottom of my heart
and I'll be gone...
@PensivePost #poetry by #vicky
Once upon a time there was a lonely trash bin. His name was John.
John was very lonely because he always stays alone at home with no one to speak to.
But one faithful day, the landlord of the building where John stayed at decided that today was the day to add two new trash cans next to John.
The green trash bin was named Susan. She was a recycle bin for all the papers to be reused. She was a hero to all the trees to the world!
And the blue trash bin's name was Paul. Paul was used to store glass bottles! He was very important to the environment.
When John had first met Susan and Paul he was the HAPPIEST trash bin in the world! He had never experienced this feeling in his whole life. He stayed up all day and night talking to Susan and Paul, trying to get to know them better. I mean, it's the only thing John could do!
John, Susan, and Paul quickly became the best of friends. They were always together. Rain and shine, hail and sleet, always.
But one warm afternoon, something terrible happened. John had discovered a tiny crack on the rim of his trash bin. Susan and Paul freaked out! But John had told them that everything would be alright. That he wasn't going to go anywhere.
Little did he know...
August 27th, 1968. 3:26AM
John woke up with a jolt of pain on his right side. He turned to that side to see what was wrong. What he found was beyond terrifying. He found a split on his can. It went from the very top of his trash can to the very bottom of his trash can. It had hurt so bad. The contents, all his trash, had begun to spill out.
He quickly woke Susan and Paul. He showed them what was wrong and it wasn't long before all three had begun sobbing.
The pain John was experiencing was so intense he could barely breathe. He knew he was dying.
John uttered his last words to Susan and Paul, smiled, and closed his eyes....
Paul, who never cried, shed his tears. One by one they trickled down his face and down his chin. He let out a sob and another. He replayed John's last words over and over again in his mind.
"Thank you for being my friend."
John passed away at age 36 on August 27th, 1968 at 3:48AM
@PensivePost #ss
John was very lonely because he always stays alone at home with no one to speak to.
But one faithful day, the landlord of the building where John stayed at decided that today was the day to add two new trash cans next to John.
The green trash bin was named Susan. She was a recycle bin for all the papers to be reused. She was a hero to all the trees to the world!
And the blue trash bin's name was Paul. Paul was used to store glass bottles! He was very important to the environment.
When John had first met Susan and Paul he was the HAPPIEST trash bin in the world! He had never experienced this feeling in his whole life. He stayed up all day and night talking to Susan and Paul, trying to get to know them better. I mean, it's the only thing John could do!
John, Susan, and Paul quickly became the best of friends. They were always together. Rain and shine, hail and sleet, always.
But one warm afternoon, something terrible happened. John had discovered a tiny crack on the rim of his trash bin. Susan and Paul freaked out! But John had told them that everything would be alright. That he wasn't going to go anywhere.
Little did he know...
August 27th, 1968. 3:26AM
John woke up with a jolt of pain on his right side. He turned to that side to see what was wrong. What he found was beyond terrifying. He found a split on his can. It went from the very top of his trash can to the very bottom of his trash can. It had hurt so bad. The contents, all his trash, had begun to spill out.
He quickly woke Susan and Paul. He showed them what was wrong and it wasn't long before all three had begun sobbing.
The pain John was experiencing was so intense he could barely breathe. He knew he was dying.
John uttered his last words to Susan and Paul, smiled, and closed his eyes....
Paul, who never cried, shed his tears. One by one they trickled down his face and down his chin. He let out a sob and another. He replayed John's last words over and over again in his mind.
"Thank you for being my friend."
John passed away at age 36 on August 27th, 1968 at 3:48AM
@PensivePost #ss
A question that haunts poets, "ISN'T IT DIFFICULT TO FIND ACCEPTANCE?"
What makes the work of a poet most difficult is not that the world doesn't always appreciate what he or she does. We all know how wrong the world can be. It was wrong about Vincent Van Gogh when it refused
to purchase his sunflower painting for the roughly $125 he was asking, and it is every bit as wrong to pay $35 million or $40 million for it today.
What is most difficult for a poet is to find the time to read and write when there are so many distractions, like making a living and caring for others. But the time set aside for being a poet, even if only for a few moments each day, can be wonderfully happy, full of joyous, solitary discovery. Here's a passage about the joy of making art from Louise Nevelson's memoir Dawns and Dusks. Nevelson was a sculptor, but what she says about an artist's life can be applied to poetry, too:
"I'd rather work twenty-four hours a day in my studio and come in here and fall down on the bed than do anything I know. Because it is living. It's like pure water; it's living. The essence of living is in doing, and in doing, I have made my world and it's a much better world than I ever saw outside."
The essence of living is in doing, Nevelson suggests, and the essence of being a poet is in the writing, not in the publications or the prizes.
@PensivePost
What makes the work of a poet most difficult is not that the world doesn't always appreciate what he or she does. We all know how wrong the world can be. It was wrong about Vincent Van Gogh when it refused
to purchase his sunflower painting for the roughly $125 he was asking, and it is every bit as wrong to pay $35 million or $40 million for it today.
What is most difficult for a poet is to find the time to read and write when there are so many distractions, like making a living and caring for others. But the time set aside for being a poet, even if only for a few moments each day, can be wonderfully happy, full of joyous, solitary discovery. Here's a passage about the joy of making art from Louise Nevelson's memoir Dawns and Dusks. Nevelson was a sculptor, but what she says about an artist's life can be applied to poetry, too:
"I'd rather work twenty-four hours a day in my studio and come in here and fall down on the bed than do anything I know. Because it is living. It's like pure water; it's living. The essence of living is in doing, and in doing, I have made my world and it's a much better world than I ever saw outside."
The essence of living is in doing, Nevelson suggests, and the essence of being a poet is in the writing, not in the publications or the prizes.
@PensivePost
"Accidentally" HBO leak a couple episodes of a TV show [GOT] to hackers, but give them an alternate version of the finale, in which a critical moment has a completely different outcome. It'd confuse the hell out of the people who watch it illegally
@PensivePost #RandomIdeas
@PensivePost #RandomIdeas
A real crime story (non-fiction) that's almost a gothic fiction!! Read it here
For someone who wants to write, it is a story plot.
@PensivePost
For someone who wants to write, it is a story plot.
@PensivePost
Msn
A teen reunited with her birth mother — who then killed her and burned her body, police say
In an affidavit that reads like gothic fiction, investigators describe how a teen reunited with her birth mother last year on an isolated farm in Missouri — only to be tortured there, forced to crawl through hog pens and have salt rubbed in her wounds, and…
Crossroad Blues
Back home in St Louis, there was this music store called Holman’s. They had just about everything on Heaven and Earth, from pianos to penny-whistles. They even sold records, too, and the very first time I ever heard the blues, it was Bessie Smith’s voice flowing like sweet, cool water out of Holman’s front door. That music meant so much to me that it’s somehow almost a footnote to remember that the sidewalk outside Holman’s, coincidentally, was one of my parents’ many prime fighting spots. Soon as they turned that street corner, every damn time, my mother or father would let out a sharp “So about that…” or “I think you oughta…”, and it’d break out into an unholy shouting match to put the dogs of war to shame. I’d shrink down into the concrete just to avoid catching another burning fist.After a couple of years of this hell, Mister Holman himself gifted me with a guitar, as compensation for my troubles, and I played that thing until my fingers bled. It was my only God and solace.A little later, I started playing my songs wherever people’d listen, but they all just walked on by. Bobby Dixon had tighter rhythm. Art Freeman had smarter lyrics. Lissy Mulligan knew these obscure chords from China.So I went down to the crossroads and begged for salvation. The devil, he’s shorter than you’d think. Thinner, too. But he had those eyes like diamonds and that crooked smile, just like all the stories. He cut me a deal, a sweeter deal than I expected; ”I’ll make you the greatest guitarist on this side of the globe”, he said, his voice as smooth and cold as silk, ”and in twenty years, you can pay me back.” “You want my soul?” I asked. ”That ain’t necessary”, said he… “but we’re having some trouble back where I come from, and I sure could use someone to help look after my pets.”I agreed, of course, and for the next twenty years I lived like a king, cutting records, playing gigs, hooking more than my fair share of adoring fans. But the greatest reward, for me, was finally being able to play the music I pictured in my head, with no damn skill barrier rising in my way. It was like liquid gold trickling from my fingers, raw yet beautiful, every single time.As he does, though, the devil came to collect. I kept my skill, thank God, but in return, I had to take care of his pets. And as a thousand hell-bound souls poured weeping into my head, I only had the chance to ask him how long it would last.”Oh, maybe a hundred years or so. Just ’til we get things straightened out.”I’ve been living with this for almost a decade now, and it hasn’t gotten any less awful.They fight and cry and scream so loud I can barely hear myself play.
@PensivePost #ss Submitted by tilvast
Back home in St Louis, there was this music store called Holman’s. They had just about everything on Heaven and Earth, from pianos to penny-whistles. They even sold records, too, and the very first time I ever heard the blues, it was Bessie Smith’s voice flowing like sweet, cool water out of Holman’s front door. That music meant so much to me that it’s somehow almost a footnote to remember that the sidewalk outside Holman’s, coincidentally, was one of my parents’ many prime fighting spots. Soon as they turned that street corner, every damn time, my mother or father would let out a sharp “So about that…” or “I think you oughta…”, and it’d break out into an unholy shouting match to put the dogs of war to shame. I’d shrink down into the concrete just to avoid catching another burning fist.After a couple of years of this hell, Mister Holman himself gifted me with a guitar, as compensation for my troubles, and I played that thing until my fingers bled. It was my only God and solace.A little later, I started playing my songs wherever people’d listen, but they all just walked on by. Bobby Dixon had tighter rhythm. Art Freeman had smarter lyrics. Lissy Mulligan knew these obscure chords from China.So I went down to the crossroads and begged for salvation. The devil, he’s shorter than you’d think. Thinner, too. But he had those eyes like diamonds and that crooked smile, just like all the stories. He cut me a deal, a sweeter deal than I expected; ”I’ll make you the greatest guitarist on this side of the globe”, he said, his voice as smooth and cold as silk, ”and in twenty years, you can pay me back.” “You want my soul?” I asked. ”That ain’t necessary”, said he… “but we’re having some trouble back where I come from, and I sure could use someone to help look after my pets.”I agreed, of course, and for the next twenty years I lived like a king, cutting records, playing gigs, hooking more than my fair share of adoring fans. But the greatest reward, for me, was finally being able to play the music I pictured in my head, with no damn skill barrier rising in my way. It was like liquid gold trickling from my fingers, raw yet beautiful, every single time.As he does, though, the devil came to collect. I kept my skill, thank God, but in return, I had to take care of his pets. And as a thousand hell-bound souls poured weeping into my head, I only had the chance to ask him how long it would last.”Oh, maybe a hundred years or so. Just ’til we get things straightened out.”I’ve been living with this for almost a decade now, and it hasn’t gotten any less awful.They fight and cry and scream so loud I can barely hear myself play.
@PensivePost #ss Submitted by tilvast
Forwarded from Interrobangs‽
"I'll be seeing my parents soon," she thought as the plane started to descend.
With smoke filling the cabin and the screams of her fellow passengers growing ever more terrified, all she could do was helplessly clutch the urn in her lap and pray it wouldn't hurt too much.
@PensivePost #2lines
With smoke filling the cabin and the screams of her fellow passengers growing ever more terrified, all she could do was helplessly clutch the urn in her lap and pray it wouldn't hurt too much.
@PensivePost #2lines