An ovation for virtuoso long-form criticism.
Fiona Leahy: The darkside of food « The Number 4 Blog
From Bompas & Parr / A Razor, A Shiny Knife / Fiona Leahy’s recent London event, Black Banquet. 90% of all of the food served was black, with some white and colored accents.
I would make a fantastic addition to Bompas & Parr’s bespoke jelly mould business. I can make you a St. Paul’s. Trust. It’ll be great.
Scotch Whiskey Flavored Condoms
THE BEST THING TO HAPPEN TO THE CONDOM SINCE SEX
(via:fuckyeahstrangefinds)
Tadao Ando completed building the Ryotaro Shiba Memorial Museum in 2001 in honor of the late and great Japanese writer. When you enter the building, you must walk through the library. All of the books pictured were from Shiba’s own collection.
Also: I really need to move. I don’t need to go somewhere exciting or even new, I just cannot be here right now.
Dear Economics,
I’m sorry, but I’m over you. You’re fucking fascist and mostly useless except now I can sort of read a math paper. Thanks for teaching me theories of how people think and spend their money based on Anglo/male/bourgeoisie rationality, which, by the way, totally breaks down in real life, and can only be really explored using crazy math shit if I go to grad school for you. Which I just can’t.
I hope we can still be friends (aka don’t sabotage my GPA so I can go to grad school and STUDY SOMETHING ELSE).
Best,
Me
(PS: Photo is via National Geographic’s Explorer, which I cannot believe I haven’t watched yet jesuschrist)
The Austrian collective “Gelitin” did this installation exhibit at The Hayward in London in Summer 2008 and I have regretted missing it for over a year now. As a part of the exhibition Psycho Buildings, they flooded the roof terrace and made makeshift boats that anyone who wanted to could float about on. Will my architecture professor call me foolish when I tell him how much I like this? More importantly: When will I ever get the chance to be on a lake on a roof in London again?
demeterrising:(via pieceofmyart)
I think it’s agreed we all wish we cried twinkly lights.
Behold, James Joyce’s dirty letters to his wife, Nora. (via beingsnoyman)
