The state of American media & journalism.
And now they’re discussing whether or not the selfie stole the headlines. Yes dipshit, because of you guys.
God walks into a bar
Half past Last Call the universe is created
The dance is over. Downtown Los Angeles.
Since we live in a society that promotes faddism and temporary superficial adaptation of different values, we are easily convinced that changes have occurred in arenas where there has been little or no change. — Feminist Theory from Margin to Center by bell hooks
But when does language speak itself as a language? Curiously enough, when we cannot find the right word for something that concerns us, carries us away, oppresses or encourages us. Then we leave unspoken what we have in mind and, without rightly giving it thought, undergo moments in which language itself has distantly and fleetingly touched us with its essential being. — The Nature of Language by Martin Heidegger
…art itself, be it literature, painting or music, has to establish a relationship with the real that is no longer a matter or ornament, of imitation, but a matter or laying bare, unmasking, scraping, digging, of violent reduction to the basic aspects of existence. […] Art becomes a place of eruption from below, of what has no right or possibility of expression in a culture. […] The courage of the art in its barbarous truth should go against the consensus of the culture. — Michel Foucault, ‘The Courage of Truth’ Lectures at the College de France, 1983-1984. (via luchie)
Enter. South Main St. Los Angeles.
The Alarm, Firelight, Boston, Childe Hassam, 1886
He began to examine his hopes and dreams one by one, and one by one to efface them as a sailor pencils out the days on the calendar in his cabin.
Sometimes, as he stood watch in the middle of the night, he could feel his glory knifing toward him like a shark from some great distance in the darkly heaping sea, see it almost, aglow like the noctilucae that fire the water, surging in to flood him with light and cast the silhouette of his heroic figure against the brink of man’s world. — The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea by Yukio Mishima
…whereas with space, meanings are attached to the world, with the landscape they are gathered from it. Moreover, while places have centers –– indeed it would be more appropriate to say they are centers –– they have no boundaries. — Tim Ingold, the Temporality of the Landscape (via centralproject)
In nineteenth-century daguerreotypes of the American West, the land is the dropped rind from a transcendently fresh sky. Time is evident: bleaching centuries have withered the landscape. There is no evidence of history except the presence of the camera.
The camera is debris, the pristine image ‘taken’ is contamination. The camera can only look backward. Our backward glance is pure and naively fond. The camera cannot look forward. To see the future we must look through Ray-Ban darkly. Smog, literally. There is smog in Phoenix, Vegas, Modesto. Smog is everywhere. It is had to see the West the pioneers imagines. It is more difficult to imagine their terror. But not impossible, as witness my dude-ranch vastation.
So we mythologize. Ralph Lauren has built roads on his ranch, sunk ponds, cleared pastures. ‘My goal is to keep and preserve the West.’; A modern heresy, an arrogant self-hatred is rampant in the West: the idea that we can create landscapes vacant of human will when, in fact, protection is human intrusion. When we celebrate the land as an alternative to the city, we encircle it with our will. Our ultimate picket fence, the ultimate domestication, is the modern ability to say: ‘Rage on here, but not elsewhere.’ Any tending of wilderness makes of the wilderness a lawn. — Richard Rodriguez, “Ralph Lauren’s Teepee.” In Crossing the frontier: photographs of the developing West, 1849 to the present. San Francisco: SF MoMA, 1996. 51-53. (via centralproject)