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Agnès Varda La Pointe Courte 1955

John Rawlings The artist Marisol in her New York City studio with her sculptures 1962

Ralph Gatti Billy Wilder, Michelangelo Antonioni and Satyajit Ray having coffee on May 14, 1982, during the 35th Cannes Film Festival 1982

Paul Klee, The Cat, from Some Poems By Paul Klee, trans. Anselm Hollo [x]

Berenice Abbott Parabolic Mirror Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958–1961

“How can another see into me, into my most secret self, without my being able to see in there myself? And without my being able to see him in me. And if my secret self, that which can be revealed only to the other, to the wholly other, to God if you wish, is a secret that I will never reflect on, that I will never know or experience or possess as my own, then what sense is there in saying that it is my secret, or in saying more generally that a secret belongs, that it is proper to or belongs to some one, or to some other who remains someone. It's perhaps there that we find the secret of secrecy. Namely, that it is not a matter of knowing and that it is there for no one. A secret doesn't belong, it can never be said to be at home or in its place. The question of the self: who am I not in the sense of who am I but rather who is this I that can say who? What is the - I and what becomes of responsibility once the identity of the I trembles in secret?” — Jacques Derrida, The Gift of Death, Second Edition & Literature in Secret (Religion and Postmodernism

Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes 1975

Sol LeWitt Untitled from Forms Derived from a Cube 1982 

Kurt Schwitters Merzbau 1933 Ph: Wilhelm Redemann

Horst P. Horst Lucia Bosé c. 1950

Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker “Come Out” from Fase: Four movements to the Music of Steve Reich 1982 Ph: Herman Sorgeloos

And shall we have to deny thee then, God of the tumors, God of the living flower, begin with a no to the obscure rock "I am," consent to death and on each tomb inscribe our only certainty: "thanatos athanatos"? Without a name to tell the dreams the tears the furors of this man defeated by still-open questions. Our dialogue alters; now the absurd becomes possible. There, beyond the smoke of fog, within the trees the potency of leaves awakes, true is the river pressing on the banks. Life is not dream. True is man and his jealous plaint of silence. God of silence, open solitude. Salvatore Quasimodo, Thanatos Athanatos, from The Selected Writings of Salvatore Quasimodo, trans. Allen Mandelbaum

Helena Almeida Desenhos Habitados / Inhabited Drawings 1975

The successive houses in which we have lived have no doubt made our gestures commonplace. But we are very surprised, when we return to the old house, after an odyssey of many years, to find that the most delicate gestures, the earliest gestures suddenly come alive, are still faultless. In short, the house we were born in has engraved within us the hierarchy of the various functions of inhabiting. We are the diagram of the functions of inhabiting that particular house, and all the other houses are but variations on a fundamental theme. The word habit is too worn a word to express this passionate liaison of our bodies, which do not forget, with an unforgettable house. — Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

“But over and beyond our memories, the house we were born in is physically inscribed in us. It is a group of organic habits. After twenty years, in spite of all the other anonymous stairways; we would recapture the reflexes of the "first stairway," we would not stumble on that rather high step. The house's entire being would open up, faithful to our own being. We would push the door that creaks with the same gesture, we would find our way in the dark to the distant attic. The feel of the tiniest latch has remained in our hands.” — Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

Louise Bourgeois From La Réparation 2003

Toshihiko Shimizu Letter Picture No.2 1967-1970

Beautiful morning with no need of myths, sipping honey without blasphemy. Beautiful morning, this or some other morning, this life or some other invention, without any ghosts in the shadows. The sand's dampness clings to my feet. I swallow the sea, which swallows me. Seashells, curved thoughts, shades of complete blue light over materialized forms. Beautiful passing body, blended into the whole body of the world. An urge to sing, but so intense I hold my tongue, replete. Carlos Drummond de Andrade, Sponge Song, from Carlos Drummond de Andrade, Multitudinous Heart: Selected Poems: A Bilingual Edition, trans. Richard Zenith

James Rönkkö Manuela Zine 2022 [x]

Man Ray “Enough Rope” 1944