Don't leave anything for later.
Later, the coffee gets cold.
Later, you lose interest.
Later, the day turns into night.
Later, people grow up.
Later, people grow old.
Later, life goes by.
Later, you regret not doing something...
When you had the chance
From French street artist OakOak, a reminder that art is everywhere and that art comes from everywhere. From their website and Instagram, here are a few more pieces that caught my eye
This image above was created by a Japanese neurologist.
It stays still when you are calm. It begins to move when you experience a slight amount of pressure. It moves like a carousel when under a great deal of stress.The Chicago Tribune didn’t replace its retiring architecture critic. So he funded his own successor.
Pulitzer Prize-winning critic Blair Kamin is paying for the Tribune’s next architecture writer out of his own pocket. Why would he do such a thing?
Sydney was once a creative oasis. Now, a housing crisis is 'killing the artists'
From Danielle Coffyn, a poem called If Adam Picked the Apple. Here’s the first bit of it:
If Adam Picked the Apple
🍎
There would be a parade,
a celebration,
a holiday to commemorate
the day he sought enlightenment.
We would not speak of
temptation by the devil, rather,
we would laud Adam’s curiosity,
his desire for adventure
and knowing.
You can read the rest of the poem here and preorder her poetry collection of the same name.
BTW, the hilarious painting is The Rebuke of Adam and Eve (1626) by Domenichino. That Adam, what a wanker.
Hunger Camp At Jaslo Write it. Write. In ordinary ink on ordinary paper: they were given no food, they all died of hunger. "All. How many? It's a big meadow. How much grass for each one?" Write: I don't know. History counts its skeletons in round numbers. A thousand and one remains a thousand, as though the one had never existed: an imaginary embryo, an empty cradle, an ABC never read, air that laughs, cries, grows, emptiness running down steps toward the garden, nobody's place in the line. We stand in the meadow where it became flesh, and the meadow is silent as a false witness. Sunny. Green. Nearby, a forest with wood for chewing and water under the bark- every day a full ration of the view until you go blind. Overhead, a bird- the shadow of its life-giving wings brushed their lips. Their jaws opened. Teeth clacked against teeth. At night, the sickle moon shone in the sky and reaped wheat for their bread. Hands came floating from blackened icons, empty cups in their fingers. On a spit of barbed wire, a man was turning. They sang with their mouths full of earth. "A lovely song of how war strikes straight at the heart." Write: how silent. "Yes." Wislawa Szymborska