jesuisperdu:

umar rashid
detail of “Post Physical Slavery American Negro Archetype Number 2. George Washington Filmore Jackson. Brilliant scholar, jazz saxophonist, perpetual self-hater, master of the waltz Viennese, the kowtow, and the bow and scrape. His body is always tilted at a 45 degree angle to his imagined superiors. Born disappointment.”
[acrylic and graphite on canvas, 36”x 48.5”.]

jesuisperdu:

umar rashid

detail of “Post Physical Slavery American Negro Archetype Number 2. George Washington Filmore Jackson. Brilliant scholar, jazz saxophonist, perpetual self-hater, master of the waltz Viennese, the kowtow, and the bow and scrape. His body is always tilted at a 45 degree angle to his imagined superiors. Born disappointment.

[acrylic and graphite on canvas, 36”x 48.5”.]

pixography:

John Harris ~ “Generator”

pixography:

John Harris ~ “Generator

(via corvadt)

urgetocreate:

Charles Hoffbauer, New York Public Library 

urgetocreate:

Charles Hoffbauer, New York Public Library 

(via jesuisperdu)

The salty foetid smell of seaweed. The laminated kitchen table, still stained from a cuppa of Liptons, the teabag swollen up like a bloated floater someone had not flushed. Dickhead. Just like a regular day down at Conto’s, kids mucking and/or frolicking around in the shallows on their boogie boards and foamy waves staining his dacks (or were they hemp strides?) with white that was very similar in appearance to semen but possibly not. Something about the roundhouse. He had gotten nearly-laid at the park in the middle of the night once, then it had started raining. The rain was probably saliferous. Seagulls shitting on the picnic tables, while nippers threw broken paddle pop sticks bought from the beach kiosk, pretending they were chippies. Gulls explode if you feed them bicarb soda, ya know. The humps of the waves like a preserved soul of a drowned surfer, penis crusted with sand, also the clacker, organ-wrenching glimpses of blood (which is salty) from the great whiteheads crashing spray down again and again and mixing with the familiar scent of the foam and people puking outside Timezone and families frying something up on the beach barbies again. Prawns probably. Someone yelled ‘CUNT’ down on the limestone street below his window, which was also slightly salty. Or at least had some sand on the windowsill. He sat down on the verandah in his wicker beach chair that was made from brackish driftwood that had washed up on the sand at the Old Maccas near that Freo nautical museum that might still be open. He smiled to himself, running his tongue over his dried lips, his briny ponytail mussed a little by the wind, and nodded. “Booker prize again.”