even*cleveland: kisses

Showing posts with label kisses. Show all posts

this weekend

Prevailing passions:

Happy weekend.

Andy Warhol. Kiss. 1963–64. 16mm film still.

Found here.

sunday tune: j. frank wilson - last kiss

summer to your heart

I know I am but summer to your heart,
And not the full four seasons of the year.

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Eight Sonnets.

Photo from jja_bra's Flickr, via per temeritas.

ardor

Then comes a longing
That I don't understand
Because it feels like it's towards you
But here you are
So I don't understand
What this longing's for

From 'Watching the Sleeping Lover' in Sam Shepard + Joseph Chaiken's 'Savage/Love'

Image of Andy Warhol's Kiss from 7 Objects in a Box. 1966.

This is the first kiss ever captured on film - it was a scene from the play The Widow Jones, and was staged for the camera. It was the most popular Edison Vitascope film in 1896.

By 1900, people had become more lascivious on film:

a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous

Kisses, as defined by Ingrid Bergman. Image from this.

What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art. The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.

V. Woolf

Don't be amazed if you see my eyes always wandering. In fact, this is my way of reading, and it is only in this way that reading proves fruitful for me. If a book truly interests me, I cannot follow it for more than a few lines before my mind, having seized on a thought that the text suggests to it, or a feeling, or a question, or an image, goes off on a tangent and springs from thought to thought, from image to image, in an itinerary of reasonings and fantasies that I feel the need to pursue to the end, moving away from the book until I have lost sight of it. The stimulus of reading is indispensable to me, and of meaty reading, even if, of every book, I manage to read no more than a few pages. But those few pages already enclose for me whole universes, which I can never exhaust.

Italo Calvino

Why didn't she try collecting something? It didn't matter what. She would find it gave an interest to life, and there was no end to the little curiosities one could easily pick up.

Henry James

this weekend

kiss

sunday tune: j. frank wilson - last kiss

summer to your heart

ardor

reluctance

the may-irwin kiss

a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous

contact

elsewhere

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