Happy birthday tooo meee! I’m turning 19 on Friday, which means I’m another year closer to being all fat, wrinked and dead. Ain’t it a reason to celebrate?
No, honestly. I used to hate birthdays, because they reminded me of my perishing youth. Not that I love it that much. I’d rather be middle-aged, if that means having life experience and all the confidence that comes with it, a stable job, and the right to say “you’ll grow up and see.” Nevertheless, I’ve always felt irrationally sorry for every year that passed.
I really admire people who do awesome stuff just because. Those who write novels for pleasure, or make hilarious YouTube videos, or spend entire days drawing pictures they’re not planning to sell. Or those who build sand sculptures, for the joy of kids and lazy tourists. Thank God for those guys!
I grew up believing thatDavid Hockney’s iconic painting A Bigger Splash was all about contrast: between the static, orderly background and the seemingly uncontrolled “splash”, which, by the way, was carefully painted with tiny brushstrokes. Alright, good enough.
It might look like the result of a bored, rich kid’s experiments with Photoshop and/or illegal substances, but this marvelous picture of a jellyfish across a cloudy sky is actually the work of Russian biologist and photographer Alexander Semenov. To take it, he dived underwater (under very clean water, it seems) and turned his camera upwards.
Enjoy his results while I’m holidaying (by some less clean water.) Or at least my body is, because my mind keeps working on all the much more elaborate posts I’ll treat you with when I come back. I’ll also insert a jellyfishy pun here, as soon as I come up with one.
The ICA holds a curious exhibition at the moment. It’s called Keep Your Timber Limber and gathers artworks related, in various (but always obvious) ways, to sex. Seen separately, each of the featured artists deserves notice, but putting them together in such way is beyond gimmicky; it’s a case of Sex! And now that I have your attention…
School’s over! I really wanted to post a song about packing your stuff, because that’s what I’m doing today, but all I found was this marvelous sculpture by Michelangelo Pistoletto. It’s called Venus of the Rags, and it accurately represents what you’d see if you walked into my room right now. If I were Venus, that is.
When I broke up with my ex, I hit Bond Streetand got myself the most expensive shoes I’ve ever had. You think that’s crazy? At least I’m not like that girl who, after splitting up with a lover, crashed her car into a bridge. Just for the kicks, apparently.
I can’t sing, full stop. Whenever I try, flowers wilt, rivers dry out and angels in heaven stick clouds in their ears. I could make a fortune as a busker if people paid me to remain silent. And so on and so forth.
And I’m pretty sure I was born without a singing voice precisely because it had been given to Fiona Apple.