fyeahwomenartists:

A second issue of the Women Artists is due out this year and we’re looking for contributors. If you’re unfamiliar with the previous issue, we interviewed a handful of women artists about their work and lives. We’d like to continue that tradition in our second issue. If you’re a writer / interviewer / or just enthusiastic about women and their art and might like to be a part of the second issue, send us a message! Please be sure include an interview proposal. No deadline yet on when to get in touch but we’ll keep you updated.

fyeahwomenartists:

A second issue of the Women Artists is due out this year and we’re looking for contributors. If you’re unfamiliar with the previous issue, we interviewed a handful of women artists about their work and lives. We’d like to continue that tradition in our second issue. If you’re a writer / interviewer / or just enthusiastic about women and their art and might like to be a part of the second issue, send us a message! Please be sure include an interview proposal. No deadline yet on when to get in touch but we’ll keep you updated.

"Let’s face it. We’re undone by each other. And if we’re not, we’re missing something. If this seems so clearly the case with grief, it is only because it was already the case with desire. One does not always stay intact." -Judith Butler

I have notebooks of desire sealed up in cardboard boxes instead of under my pillows like children’s stories. I have pieces of paper torn between magazines and books and beds across countries. I take screen shots of your messages in case I lose them. Who are you anyway? I make up a man from many men, because there’s no man for me. Acupuncture has inadvertently made me stop smoking. The thought images compound when I try to ‘clear’ my mind, laying on my back unable to move as the needles will tug at my wrist muscles with a sensation that my hands could rip off my arms at any moment. So I avoid that. That used to be smoking. Sitting smoking scribing. But the notebooks are sealed up now, the Mexican cigarette boxes fallen behind my clothes, and there’s nothing to write about.

coffee-1-17 coffee-1-16 coffee-1-13coffee-1-19coffee-1-21 coffee-1-20coffee-1-22

So…. why is this not my life, world? I think I’m done forcing myself to be behind the camera or behind the camera of my own image. I don’t want my teenage modelling career type in-front-of-camera, but like, I have a lover/partner/husband/father of our children that wants me part of his gaze no matter what. 

So…. why is this not my life, world? I think I’m done forcing myself to be behind the camera or behind the camera of my own image. I don’t want my teenage modelling career type in-front-of-camera, but like, I have a lover/partner/husband/father of our children that wants me part of his gaze no matter what. 

Sontag disliked how much she relied on others, and deplored her neediness and attempts to please. In the journals, she repeatedly accuses herself of “feeding” on people for their talents or knowledge. She would be more herself if she could only “consume less of what others produce.” Even the conversation she loves and lives for is suspect. She wastes herself in talk; she should talk less about her ideas because this means she is less likely to write about them. It makes sense that Sontag experiences being alone as an intellectual loss when she associates aloneness so closely with genius. In an entry from 1966, when she is 33, she dismisses herself as not having a “first rate” mind, and blames her inadequacy in part on being too dependent: “My character, my sensibility, is ultimately too conventional … I’m not mad enough, not obsessed enough.

this. (via anaceciliaalvarez)

An articulation of me 24/7. 

積ん読 (tsundoku): the act of leaving a book unread after buying it, typically piled up together with other such unread books.

(via cities)

I think that pleasure is a very difficult behaviour. It’s not as simple as that to enjoy one’s self. And I must say that’s my dream. I would like and I hope I die of an overdose of pleasure of any kind.

Because I think it’s really difficult and I always have the feeling that I do not feel the pleasure, the complete total pleasure and, for me, it’s related to death.

Because I think that the kind of pleasure I would consider as the real pleasure would be so deep, so intense, so overwhelming that I couldn’t survive it. I would die.

Michel Foucault, 1977