Glam! The Performance of Style
Tate Liverpool: Exhibition
8 February – 12 May 2013
Glam! The Performance of Style
Tate Liverpool: Exhibition
8 February – 12 May 2013
Ellen von Unwerth
Untitled by Jerry N. Uelsmann, 1934
Uelsmann revived the technique of combination printing pioneered by such Victorian art photographers as Oscar Gustave Rejlander and Henry Peach Robinson in the early 1960s, when darkroom manipulation was denigrated by many proponents of straight photography as a flagrant violation of photographic purity. His pictures, which he creates in a darkroom equipped with seven enlargers, are filled with mind-bending paradoxes, oblique symbolism, and bizarre contrasts of scale.
part of Faking It: Manipulated Photography Before Photoshop
at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, thru January 27, 2013
Here’s Looking At You, Kid
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die. I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
at Le Philosophe (via)
(via itsunofficial)
New York, by George Bellows. 1911.
Bellows generally preferred to paint Manhattan’s periphery. In this unusual composite view of a midtown business district, which pertains most closely to Madison Square, he presents the city as a place in constant flux. Packing the scene with skyscrapers, billboards, and chimneys spewing smoke; an elevated train station and tracks; horse-drawn carriages and motorcars snarled in traffic; and sidewalks filled with men and women of all economic backgrounds, he denies the viewer’s eye a resting place. New York’s modern tumult, with countless details of sight and sound crowding in on one another, was as new and impenetrable to Bellows as it was to any of his contemporaries.
From the bedroom you can see
straight to the fringe of the woods
with a cross-staved gate to re–
enter childhood’s world:
the pines
wait, dripping.
Crumbling black–
berries, seized from a rack
of rusty leaves, maroon tents
of mushroom, pillars uprooting
with a dusty snap;
as the bucket
fills, a bird strikes from the bushes
and the cleats of your rubber boot crush a yellow snail’s shell to a smear
on the grass
(while the wind starts
the carrion smell of the dead fox
staked as warning).
Seeing your former
self saunter up the garden path
afterwards, would you flinch,
acknowledging
that sensuality,
that innocence?
—John Montague, “Return”
Art Credit Kisik Pyo
(via guestroom)
