things I like, vol. 43 (art edition)

I have been saving up for this post since May, apparently, which means I am officially taking the "this week" out of the title for good.

. . .

I adore Carey Mulligan, and the twenties, and Fitzgerald, and my only significant disappointment with the recent movie was Tobey Maguire's incessant whine (they really should've cast James McAvoy, who would've done it justice). The Vogue article about Carey was lovely, not just for the pictures but also for the insight into her character development; in the accompanying behind-the-scenes video, she reads in her natural accent one of my favorite passages from the book.

. . .

It is a bathtub hammock. Now if only it were accompanied by a fireplace . . .

. . .

A fascinating article about David Hockney, who proposed that artists were using a lens to help them sketch images long before art history had traditionally acknowledged it.

. . .

Two of my favorite tango people, Homer and Christina. If you've ever struggled to put a visual to musicality, this is it. (It gets more impressive as it goes on, so keep watching.)

. . . 

Two paintings from Ugallery.com, which is devoted to providing an online gallery space for emerging artists (often university students).

. . .

A photograph of a girl who has been painted on and placed in a milk bath. (more at the link)

. . . 

Chain link fencing as art, from 22 Dreamy Art Installations You Want to Live In. 

. . .

A stunningly beautiful set of engagement photos in Iceland.

. . .

What struck me most about these pictures is how modern they look, despite the four decades that have passed since they were taken. 

. . . 

Yes, please. 

. . . 

The article title says it all: Abandoned Walmart is Now America's Largest Library. If only all our Walmarts were so magically transformed.

small happiness

I find my self wanting simple happinesses, lately.

Warm cookies. Cuddles from puppies and small children. Rainy Saturdays with nowhere to go. A deep and complex purfume that smells of lily. Perfectly round and smooth hard boiled eggs, the yolk soft and fully yellow. Grass without bugs. The slight friction of my tango shoes on a wood floor. Deep temperate water in a clear pool. Warm sand to bury and unbury my toes in. Light watercolor patterned scarves. Wine as smooth as silk. 

Enough sleep. So much of my mood depends on how much or little sleep I get, and I have not slept well since July. 

And beneath that wish and my lack of sleep, much deeper, is the hollow fearful emptiness of loss and death, and the knowledge that my small happinesses would hardly mask it, even were I to obtain them all.