Featherchild by Lucy Glendinning
Lucy Glendinning created the series ‘Featherchild’. Usually the Somerset based artist starts with a poem or a short statement wich is inspired by philosophical questions, medical information, psychological studies with imagined projections into potential futures.
Her current series is called ‘Will we be able to resist it?’, asking if we will be able to resist improving ourselves. Lucy explains: ‘To save a person from disease is one thing and obviously wonderful, but will we be able to resist improving the well? Will this become a commodity and make the gap between the rich and poor more than money but into genetically different species?’ With her works, she is exploring the alterations we might find desirable and how our future children might look. ‘A natural reaction seems that it is a bad thing, to improve the well, but is it? Has evolutiochidn put us in charge?’
The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering.
wow. I don’t usually reblog photography but this is meaningful and really hits you.
"When you are a young girl in a world that hates women’s bodies, your developing sexuality is a loaded weapon and your parents, peers and teachers line up to make sure you never learn how to use it."
-laurie penny (@pennyred) in her take
on mileygate in the @NewStatesman:
Almias, 45-minutes of rural drone music, 120-page PDF of psychogeography, photography and oral history.
Fette, Untitled, November 2012.
A man who nearly breathed himself to death.
In a book I once read by Peter Freuchen,’ Fanshawe writes, ‘the famous Arctic explorer describes being trapped by a blizzard in northern Greenland. Alone, his supplies dwindling, he decided to build an igloo and wait out the storm. Many days passed. Afraid, above all, that he would be attacked by wolves—for he heard them prowling hungrily on the roof of his igloo—he would periodically step outside and sing at the top of his lungs in order to frighten them away. But the wind was blowing fiercely, and no matter how hard he sang, the only thing he could hear was the wind. If this was a serious problem, however, the problem of the igloo itself was much greater. For Freuchen began to notice that the walls of his little shelter were gradually closing in on him. Because of the particular weather conditions outside, his breath was literally freezing to the walls, and with each breath the walls became that much thicker, the igloo became that much smaller, until eventually there was almost no room left for his body. It is surely a frightening thing, to imagine breathing yourself into a coffin of ice, and to my mind considerably more compelling than, say, The Pit and the Pendulum by Poe. For in this case it is the man himself who is the agent of his own destruction, and further, the instrument of that destruction is the very thing he needs to keep himself alive.
Paul Auster. Via.
Neil Hilborn - “Mating Habits of the North American Hipster”
"Now she is taking her Macbook, and his Macbook, and her other Macbook, and her book on Macbooks, and arranging them in a circle. The male deems this an acceptable mating habitat, and amidst the Apple products, he mounts her—indifferently!"
The only poem to receive a perfect score at Rustbelt.