Waiting for Salvation
It's a dark night in "Deliverance" country. Your car breaks down. You knock on the door of a farmhouse surrounded by a wooden veranda in need of a paint job. Old, broken down cars and trucks litter the front yard. And to your great surprise, instead of sending you packing or maybe much worse, the residents share their supper with you. Then the hillbillies bring out their musical instruments and they play and sing with the devil until dawn. This is the music that Gone Dead Train is on a quest to recreate aided by few amps and microphones and a heap of talent.
#Music #MusicVideo #GoneDeadTrain #WaitingForSalvation #Band #France #AlternativeMusic
Gone Dead Train is a Folk/Country/Alternative band based in Southwest France. Members: Tony Smith is from England and has played and sung in several bands, notably The Unsound—an alternative rock combo signed and distributed by Night and Day. Hervé Guy is an accomplished harmonica player from France. Yannick Batut is an eclectic and versatile guitarist from France who plays mostly slide guitar. Cassandra Tchen sings backup vocals and is from Cleveland.
Love Me Tender
Love Me Tender is an ongoing performance project, performed in multiple locations internationally, and evolving with each new venue.
Love Me Tender investigates personal and historical feminine narratives of love and violence. Through beautifications, exhibitionism, implied self-harm, and compulsive consumption, the artist creates intimate interactions and draw battle lines between herself and the audience. In the spirit of vaudevillian traditions, burlesque, and sideshow, she democratically interfaces with the audience through gestures, eye contact, and actions.
60 minutes duration, in collaboration with Mr. Thursday
At Cycles, (exclamations) gallery, Roanoke, Virginia, 2013
Documentation by Amanda Agricola & Kent Moore
Tif Robinette is an emerging artist who has shown in over twenty group, dual, and solo exhibitions within the past four years. Her work and performances have been shown internationally. In a spirit of playfulness, she creates transdisciplinary projects that reference environments, relationships, and her own history with a sense of excess and frivolity, finding the crude and fantastic in the everyday.
#PerformanceArt #TifRobinette #Feminine #LoveMeTender #Love #Violence
"I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me, too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you". - Frida Kahlo
#PhotoSet #Photography #Frida #FridaKahlo #Artist #StefaniaRomano #Quote
It Was Called The Ship of Dreams
By Benjamin Darnell
I never understood why Albert kept that old pocket watch. It was an ugly thing. Its face was crushed, and its gears were stiff and lifeless. I was always the one who had to keep track of the time. Dammit Albert, why do you always have that clock on you? When did it start? What does it mean? Surely it means something. No, wait, don’t tell me. I can figure this out. What do clocks do? They tell time, of course. It's their gears and cogs that keep them going. Those are the organs that keep them alive. Time never stops. It can't. Except in death.
But your clock doesn’t work, does it, Albert? Why do you wear a clock that doesn’t work? Did you ever stop to think what that says to the world? Has time stopped for you? Are you just another wandering soul, trapped between this life and the next, a mere whisper of a memory of your former self? Perhaps there is some sentimental reason. I know how you humans love your sentiment. Hmm…wow, funny, I’m not sure when I stopped thinking of myself as human. It hasn’t been that long since…well, I’ve moved on anyway. But I’m not done with you yet, Albert. Why the lifeless watch? If your father had a favorite pocket watch, and he left it to you when he passed on, would you wear it in remembrance of him? And if you would, would it tick? The echo of a heart that once beat but is now forever silent. Or would you have it frozen? An heirloom in memoriam.
A person is like a clock. A collection of moving parts driven by rhythm. Tick-tock tick-tock. Thump-thump thump-thump. We are all painfully aware of time's passing, because our time is limited. But we spent our time well, didn’t we, Albert? I can remember…
“It's time to go down. They'll start rounds soon.” I would say it at 3 a.m.—Albert wanted me to always remind him at 3 a.m.
“Bugger that. If they would just get some bloody sleep instead of obsessing over our nightlives, maybe they wouldn't be so pissy in class every day.”
Albert would come anyway. He always did. But not before turning the hands on his pocket watch to pass 24 hours. Then, he would look to the sky. “Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Dad.” Then, turning to me, “Let’s dock the ship then.”
Hand woven fabrics made on a jacquard loom.
#FiberArts #JacquardWeavings #Weaving #MichaelRaab
Makeup: Sofia Hume
Our civilization is made by stories, tales which at first visual in the darkness of caves/refuges became words along the Mesopotamian rivers, on the shores of the Mediterranean, on board of the drakkars in the Northern Sea. Everywhere in the world as we know it any civilization is born and defines itself through its own stories, coming from the very beginning of human memory to be founding and identitary myth. "Myth" for the Ancient Greeks meant "tale," not as an empty entertaining fantasy fiction, but as a story that enquired and defined the dark, the hidden, the primordial in the human nature. The Olympic deities walked among the humans, they fed on their dreams and nightmares through their own stories. As long as mankind has told their myths, the ancient gods and goddesses could live. Unreachable and faraway but imagined, therefore alive. When myths were lost in the shadow of a vague blindness, empty stories of a deluded illusion, the ancient gods disappeared in silence..."Lost Fairytales" is an attempt to unbury from oblivion the memory of that inspiration which has animated the human spirit for centuries
The series presents mythical figures in a contemporary context, as if Athena and Medusa woke up from a ultramillenarian sleep and wished to reveal themselves to eyes unused to dreams. It has a dark twist because the myths are caught in the moment of waying out from the darkness. They are proud and hungry ghosts, struggling against their own loss in the shadow of contemporary mists.
Since Ancient Greece throught the Elizabethan England until the Enlightenment women couldn't (at least officially) be active in public. At the theatre, female roles were performed to men. Prejudgments of libertine promiscuity have always surrounded women dancers of any age until not much time ago. The female body portrayed in paintings and sculptures was often of courtesans and prostitutes (when not openly refused and adapted from male models), as if it was something shameful that "good people" weren't supposed to show. "Lost Fairytales" features only female models, as a recognition of the independence and dignity of their body and as a heartfelt hommage to the unbreakable bond between female blood and mystical power. For millennia human civilizations were matriarchal, devouted to lunar cults of the night, while sun and daylight cults are universally recognized as men-driven. An echo of a buried knowledge persisted in figures like Hecate or Medusa, it's one of the reasons for witches have been emarginated and prosecuted. It is in honour of this ancestral awareness that "Lost Fairytales" proudly presents its women deities, painted with light from the dark.
Model: Amanda Bray
Makeup: Nazilla Davidson
Dream of Botticelli Angels
What we see and what we seem are but a dream, a dream within a dream.
Well, young ladies, we are indeed fortunate in the weather for our picnic to Hanging Rock. I have instructed Mademoiselle that the day is likely to be warm. You may remove your gloves once the drag has passed through Wood End. We will partake a luncheon at the picnic grounds near the rock. Once again let me remind you the rock itself is extremely dangerous. You are therefore forbidden of any tomboy foolishness in the matter of exploration, even on the lowest slopes.
Everything begins and ends at the exactly right time and place.
My concentration is an unconventional representation of the seven deadly sins—to show the sins that humans are capable of committing through the use of outlandish, eerie, and whimsical expressionism. I created busts of ghoulish caricatures, each on their own personal pedestal, symbolizing a certain a sin through expression, posture, style, and color. Each work has its own unusual expression and style to depict the personality of the specific sin, giving the viewer a glimpse of the kind of person who may commit such an act. The pieces alone supply the viewer with a sense of amusement, but as a group they help establish (through form and color) the boundaries that we as humans define as sinful and dark.
By Adreyo San
In the valley of the children, in that little corner forever lulled to rest by the harsh beauty of the mountains, there is a little café. All the children go there, even the headmistress. They leave their hockey sticks and soccer balls at the door and sit the old wooden chairs and sip cold chocolate and solemnly chew potato cakes held between slices of bread by a tiny bit of ketchup.
Once upon a time, an old and extremely stout woman ran the café. She was often scolding and often angry, but her hands were gentle. She never ran out of bandages and handkerchiefs. And despite her size, she was always on her feet.
The old woman had once been a soldier and a writer. She had traveled all over the world and brought back many strange and wondrous things. The girls were always coming across them. A gypsy shawl from Leicester. A Nordic bugle. A Chinese freighter traveling in the stillness of a medicine bottle. An ancient African flag of war. A tiny model of a B-52 Raptor.
In the old woman’s time, the café was a place of frightening innovation. Swedish meatballs would appear and disappear. Sometimes, the girls would enjoy a week of hamburgers. And sometimes, they would use a cunningly crafted Chinese vessel featuring serpents forever curling towards an oblivious and melancholic raven as their hotpot. The headmistress didn’t approve of all this. She believed young girls should eat simple and wholesome food. But she was rather partial to a good souvlaki herself.
When the old tea shop woman was finally too old to do anything but seat her massive bulk in a chair and gaze in fretful contentment as the girls ran the shop, a little girl suddenly arrived on the doorstep. She was apparently hers. The old woman doted on the little girl, who was the tiniest and sweetest thing you could imagine, forever content to lie in her lap and make strange and endearing noises.
But the great love the woman bore for the child was increasingly tinged by worry. The child didn’t seem to grow. She was tiny at eight. She was just as tiny at fifteen. She seemed even tinier when she was twenty-five.
And so the little girl became lonely. The other girls, handsome and impatient children, were too busy with their games of hockey and dreams of war to pay too much attention to her increasingly sophisticated babble.
View of a Sketchfeed
Phil is an Illustrator based in Richmond, VA
#PhilWhisenhunt #Comics #Sketchbook #PenAndInk #Illustration #DateNight #Art