d.aMa design

I’m going. Phil got me new canvas,paints and brushes.

Mon, 28 Dec 2009 21:01:00 -0500

I’m going. Phil got me new canvas,paints and brushes.

d.aMa’s recent work photographed by Kris Rodammer, hair...

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 21:22:56 -0500

d.aMa’s recent work photographed by Kris Rodammer, hair and makeup by Michelle Connoly and modeled by Alena Summ.

My White Christmas.

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 15:44:34 -0500

My White Christmas.

sethkent:nathanjohnson:brothersbloom: Happy holidays,...

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 01:33:48 -0500

sethkent:nathanjohnson:brothersbloom:

Happy holidays, y’all.

This is an early piano sketch of Nathan’s for Bloom, played by the lovely and talented China Kent.

Have a happy and safe New Year.

Family Portrait by Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 01:20:50 -0500

Yes, this family portrait
is a little dusty.
The father’s face doesn’t show
how much money he earned.

The uncles’ hands don’t reveal
the voyages both of them made.
The grandmother’s smoothed and yellowed;
she’s forgotten the monarchy.

The children, how they’ve changed.
Peter’s face is tranquil,
that wore the best dreams.
And John’s no longer a liar.

The garden’s become fantastic.
The flowers are gray badges.
And the sand, beneath dead feet,
is an ocean of fog.

In the semicircle of armchairs
a certain movement is noticed.
The children are changing places,
but noiselessly! it’s a picture.

Twenty years is a long time.
It can form any image.
If one face starts to wither,
another presents itself, smiling.

All these seated strangers,
my relations? I don’t believe it.
They’re guests amusing themselves
in a rarely-opened parlor.

Family features remain
lost in the play of bodies.
But there’s enough to suggest
that a body is full of surprises.

The frame of this family portrait
holds its personages in vain.
They’re there voluntarily,
they’d know how — if need be — to fly.

They could refine themselves
in the room’s chiaroscuro,
live inside the furniture
or the pockets of old waistcoats.

The house has many drawers,
papers, long staircases.
When matter becomes annoyed,
who knows the malice of things?

The portrait does not reply,
it stares; in my dusty eyes
it contemplates itself.
The living and dead relations

multiply in the glass.
I don’t distinguish those
that went away from those
that stay. I only perceive
the strange idea of family

traveling through the flesh.

(trans Elizabeth Bishop)

americanshaft: Crinoline, 1860

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 00:41:36 -0500

americanshaft:

Crinoline, 1860

sketchbook.

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 00:14:25 -0500

sketchbook.

"I BELIEVE IN PINK. I BELIEVE THAT LAUGHING IS THE BEST CALORIE BURNER. I BELIEVE IN KISSING, KISSING..."

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 11:01:46 -0500

“I BELIEVE IN PINK. I BELIEVE THAT LAUGHING IS THE BEST CALORIE BURNER. I BELIEVE IN KISSING, KISSING A LOT. I BELIEVE IN BEING STRONG WHEN EVERYTHING SEEMS TO BE GOING WRONG. I BELIEVE THAT HAPPY GIRLS ARE THE PRETTIEST GIRLS. I BELIEVE THAT TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY AND I BELIEVE IN MIRACLES.”

- Audrey Hepburn

(via phildupree)

Fri, 25 Dec 2009 09:17:58 -0500

(via phildupree)

Feliz Natal/Merry Christmas beautiful people!

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 20:13:30 -0500

Feliz Natal/Merry Christmas beautiful people!

Photo

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 15:33:52 -0500

Photo

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 15:31:36 -0500

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you."

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 14:32:35 -0500

““Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.””

- Jesus Christ

(via deconstruct)

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 07:26:47 -0500

(via deconstruct)

She was happy

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 07:22:45 -0500

I have learned only how much more

there is to learn

and I am really astonished

at the vastness of the world

around me.

I have rejected all conventions,

the opinion of my parents,

its laws.

I don’t feel obliged to play a social role.

I’m simply too cranky for that.

And that is killing my reputation.

Like Joan of Arc killed hers

by simply wanting to fight.

In her world of hallucinations

she was happy,

and so am I.

wenbysocki:ronenreblogs: 1_photo 121x (via RonenV.com)

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 07:21:11 -0500

wenbysocki:ronenreblogs:

1_photo 121x (via RonenV.com)

TOBACCO KIOSK

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:35:18 -0500

by Fernando Pessoa

I am nothing
I shall always be nothing
I cannot wish to be anything.
Aside from that, I have within me all the dreams of the world.

Windows of my room,
The room of one of the world’s millions nobody knows about
(And if they knew about me, what would they know?)
Open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people,
To a street inaccessible to any thought,
Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,
With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings,
With death making the walls damp and men’s hair white,
With the Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing.

Today I am defeated, as if I knew the truth.
Today I am clear-minded, as if I were about to die
And had no more kinship with things
Than a goodbye, this building and this side of the street becoming
A long row of train carriages, and a whistle departing
From inside my head,
And a jolt of my nerves and a creak of bones as we go.

Today I am bewildered, as one who wondered and discovered and forgot.
Today I am divided between the loyalty I owe
To the outward reality of the Tobacco Kiosk of the other side of the street
And to the inward real feeling that everything is but a dream.
I have missed everything.
And since I had no aims, maybe everything was indeed nothing.

What I was taught,
I go down from the window at the back of the house.
I went to the countryside with grand plans,
But all I found in it was grass and trees,
And when there were people, they were just like other people
I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about now?

(…)
I have dreamed more than Napoleon did.
I have held against the hypothetical heart more humanities than Christ.
I have secretly created philosophies no Kant has ever written.
But I am, and perhaps always should be, the one from the attic
Although I don’t live in it;
I shall always be someone not born for this;
I shall always be the one who just had qualities;
I shall always be the one who has waited for a gate to open next a wall without a door
And sang the song of the infinite in a poultry-yard,
And heard God’s voice in a blocked-up well.
Believe in myself? No, not in me and not in nothing.
May Nature be dissolved on my feverish head
Her sun, her rain, the wind that ruffles my hair,
And the rest, let it come if it must, it doesn’t matter.
Hearts in thrall to the stars,
We have conquered the whole world before leaving our beds.
But we were awakened and it was opaque,
We rose and he was strange to us
We left the house and it was the whole world,
And also the Solar System, the Milky Way and the Indefinite…

(Eat your chocolates, little one!
Eat chocolates!
Know there are no metaphysics in the world but chocolates.
Know that all the faiths don’t teach more than confectionery.
Eat, dirty one, eat!
If only I could eat chocolates with the same veracity you do!
But I think, and when I lift the silver paper of a leaf of tin-foil
I let everything fall to the ground, as I have done to my life.)

(…)
Musical essence of my useless verses,
If only I could face you as something I had created
Instead of always facing the Tobacco Kiosk across the street,
Forcing underfoot the consciousness of existing,
Like a carpet a drunkard stumbles on
Or a straw mat stolen by gypsies and worth nothing.

But the Tobacco Kiosk owner has come to the door and is standing there.
I look at him with the discomfort of an half-turned head
And the discomfort of an half-grasping soul.
He shall die and I shall die.
He shall leave his signboard and I shall leave my poems.
His sign will die, and so will my poems.
And soon the street where the sign is, will die too,
And so will the language in which my poems are written.
And so will the whirling planet where all of this happened.
On other satellites of other systems something like people
Will go on making something like poems and living under things like signboards,
Always one thing facing the other,
Always one thing as useless as the other,
Always the impossible as stupid as reality,
Always the mystery of the bottom as powerful as the mysterious dream of the top.
Always this or always some other thing, or neither one nor the other.

But a man has entered the Tobacco Shop (to buy tobacco?),
And plausible reality suddenly hits me.
I half rouse myself, energetic, convinced, human,
And I will try to write these verses in which I say the opposite.

I light a cigarette as I think about writing them,
And in that cigarette I savour liberation from all thoughts.
I follow the smoke as if it were my personal itinerary
And enjoy, in a sensitive and capable moment
The liberation of all the speculations
With the conscience that metaphysics is a consequence of not feeling well.

Afterwards I throw myself on the chair
And continue smoking.
As long as Destiny allows, I will keep smoking.

(If I married my washwoman’s daughter
Maybe I should be happy.)
Upon that, I rise. And I go to the window.

The man has come out of the Tobacco Kiosk (putting change in his trousers?).
Ah, I know him: he is Esteves without metaphysics.
(The Tobacco Kiosk owner has come to the door.)
As if by a divine instinct, Esteves turned around and saw me.
He waved hello, I greet him “Hello there, Esteves!”, and the universe
Reconstructed itself for me, without ideal or hope, and the owner of the Tobacco Kiosk smiled.
Fernando Pessoa, Portuguese poet, 1888-1935

d.aMa’s latest work with Kris Rodammer (photographer) and...

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 15:23:43 -0500

d.aMa’s latest work with Kris Rodammer (photographer) and Michele Connoly (hair make-up). Model: Alena Summ

d.aMa’s ghost

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 13:22:54 -0500

d.aMa’s ghost

America intimidates my family. Too different from all they care about.

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 12:31:20 -0500

America intimidates my family. Too different from all they care about.