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Number (N)ine

ken price

A Conversation On Cool. Veruschka! 

"To whom to speak when the other no longer is?
The place is empty when emptiness occupies all of the place.”

Edmond Jabès, Paul Celan: Selections

(Source: heteroglossia)

"My identification is imperfect: I am a Mother (the other causes me concern), but an insufficient Mother; I bestir myself too much, in proportion to the profound reserve in which, actually, I remain. For at the same time that I "sincerely" identify myself with the other’s misery, what I read in this misery is that it occurs without me, and that by being miserable by himself, the other abandons me: if he suffers without my being the cause of his suffering, it is because I don’t count for him: his suffering annuls me insofar as it constitutes him outside of myself.

Whereupon, a reversal: since the other suffers without me, why suffer in his place? His misery bears him far away from me, I can only exhaust myself running after him, without ever hoping to be able to catch up, to coincide with him. So let us become a little detached, let us undertake the apprenticeship of a certain distance. Let the repressed word appear which rises to the lips of every subject, once he survives another’s death: Let us live!

So I shall suffer with the other, but without pressure, without losing myself. Such behavior, at once very affective and very controlled, very amorous and very civilized can be given a name: delicacy: in a sense it is the “healthy” (artistic) form of compassion. (Ate is the goddess of madness, but Plato speaks of Ate’s delicacy: her foot is winged, it touches lightly.)”


barthes, a lover’s discourse

Helen Frankenthaler, Japanese Maple, 2005

A nos amours, 1983

Anna Kunz
 full blown roses, 2011, gouache on sakamoto paper, approx. 13”x15”

Elo Vasquez, Stone sandwich, Iceland, 2014

cactus no. 75 from kwang-ho lee. from strange plants, a new book that explores the relationship between artists and plants. | via tmagazine 

love lasts by not lasting
                       —Jack Gilbert

I’m mapping this new year’s vanishings:    
lover, yellow house, the knowledge of surfaces.
This is not a story of return.
There are times I wish I could erase
the mind’s lucidity, the difficulty of Sundays,
my fervor to be touched
by a woman two Februarys gone. What brings the body
back, grieved and cloven, tromping these woods
with nothing to confide in? New snow reassumes
the circleting trees, the bridge above the creek
where I stand like a stranger to my life.
There is no single moment of loss, there is
an amassing. The disbeliever sleeps at an angle
in the bed. The orchard is a graveyard.
Is this the real end? Someone shoveling her way out
with cold intention? Someone naming her missing? 

Stacie Cassarino, “Snowshoe to Otter Creek

(Source: awritersruminations)

Paul-Armand Gette

Aoto Oouchi
thanks Bauce :)