cruellikeyouu

Latest Posts by cruellikeyouu

Françoise Hardy in Courrèges (1973)

Don’t forget your daily clicks !!!

link

Egon Schiele, Kneeling Girl, Resting on Both Elbows, 1917

You notice it first as April ends and May begins, a change in the season, not exactly a warming-in fact not at all a warming-yet suddenly summer seems near, a possibility, even a promise. You pass a window, you walk to Central Park, you find yourself swimming in the colour blue: the actual light is blue, and over the course of an hour or so this blue deepens, becomes more intense even as it darkens and fades, approximates finally the blue of the glass on a clear day at Chartres, or that of the Cerenkov radiation thrown off by the fuel rods in the pools of nuclear reactors. The French called this time of day "I'heure bleue." To the English it was "the gloaming." The very word "gloaming" reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour-carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows.

Joan Didion, Blue Nights

ideal ways for me to die

1. old age, peacefully in my sleep

2. after a long and illustrious career i am at a rooftop gala hosted in my honor. i am wearing a beautiful gown, holding a glass of red wine, standing by the railing. a scorned lover approaches and, after a passionate spat, they push me over the edge of the building. the wine glass goes flying, splattering their outfit in red as a visual metaphor for the blood on their hands. as i descend my gown flies around me like two beautiful wings, a bird in flight. a photographer on the street manages to take a photo before i hit the ground and that photo wins the pulitzer. a new york times think piece is released regarding whether or not it's moral to profit off a photo of someone's death. the think piece also wins a pulitzer.

3. sex accident.

by Juergen Teller

I need Art like i need God, 1997. Monoprint 30 x 41cm. Brown, N., 2006. Tracey Emin. London: Tate Publishing

hi human baby, I feel so exhausted all the time with the expectations of my desires, but I never act on them because I never feel good enough. I’m so tired of trying to be good enough. I want to write, but it feels so selfish and pointless. But we both know that’s really a flimsy cover for terror. I know I must let go of this desire, but the grief is overwhelming. What do I do?

Do you want to write? Or do you want to be the person that writes? The first sounds like desire. The second sounds more like expectation. Actually, desire is pure, and it overrides any belief about what you should or should not be. Your actions become a map of your desires. Your life becomes it's portrait. Yours tells me that you want to hide. But how am I supposed to love you if I do not know you?

Ron Van Dongen: Viola 'Black Prince’ (1998)

leonard cohen, 1965.

patti smith throwing sandwiches at a journalist after he criticized her lengthy songs

the minute it gets over 15 degrees these two come out

presented without comment

for the first time in years I didn't see Alex Turner's letter to Alexa Chung on Valentine's Day. I don't know if I should be scared for culture or thankful.

Marianne Faithfull, 1967

another vinted purchase on the way… this is getting bad

i am the way is am because like a prayer was my favourite song at 5 years old

might just finally give up and download hinge. I’m tired of men just staring at me. TALK TO ME FOR FUCK’S SAKE.

failed an exam, because i was too distracted staring at the professor during the term…

Alexa Chung by Zackery Michael c. 2016.