"Whenever behaviour in spare time is truly autonomous, determined by free people for themselves, boredom rarely figures; it need not figure in activities which cater merely for the desire for pleasure, any more than it does in those free time activities which are reasonable and meaningful in themselves. Even fooling about need not be crass, and can be enjoyed as a blessed release from the throes of self-control. If people were able to make their own decisions about themselves and their lives, if they were not caught up in the realm of the eversame, they would not have to be bored. Boredom is the reflection of objective dullness. As such it is in a similar position to political apathy. The most compelling reason for apathy is the by no means unjustified feeling of the masses that political participation within the sphere society grants them, and this holds true for all political systems in the world today, can alter their actual existence only minimally. Failing to discern the relevance of politics to their own interests, they retreat from all political activity."

- Theodor Adorno, “Free Time,” from The Culture Industry (via weil-weil)

(via snfprtch)

Source: weil-weil

Attarine Medersa
Photo Set

Really Bored Tech Support



Great work skeleton

Fine work , skeleton !

(via monetizeyourcat)

Source: zoomwitch

Preface - Picture of Dorian Gray - Preface - Oscar Wilde

The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.

Source: snfprtch

"…from the Dome and the Rotonde they set off pub-crawling to the neighbouring bars, and their writings were the product of their next day hangovers. Hemingway, Ezra Pound, Ford Madox Ford, pontificated more or less among bevies of truculent women. It was considered essential to look tough, to simulate the cowboy, if only in flourishing verbal lassos, to make a cult of the hair upon your chest. I was suspicious of this vaunted virility, and I saw just enough of these bogus Broncho Bills to shun them. Their homespuns, tweeds and stetsons, their pugilistic sweaters and ponderous pipes, were generally the camouflage of timorous souls. They lived in dread of betraying their emotions except by hiccups, and Hemingway at least has the distinction, in his early novels, of having introduced the hiccup into literature.’"

- Harold Acton, Memoirs of an Aesthete

"How many copies of Aquarium did I autograph with tender dedications! Where are they now, those witnesses of youthful passion? I think I know the answer. Not long ago I came across a copy in Charing Cross Road and purchased it - for threepence. Sic transit gloria…At least it had been well-thumbed and nicely battered. The fly-leaf was torn out. Had it compromised the owner? My thoughts returned to the bygone loves to whom I had given copies, to blue eyes, green eyes, eyes like black diamonds, to gentle struggles and showers of burning kisses. Could this have belonged to…? Perish the notion! Some of my inscriptions would have been embarrassing to explain. Nearly all my loves are married, and parents of children I have no desire to meet. Why distress the tranquil vegetation of middle-aged Darbies and Joans? No home-breaker I, no cuckoo in other nests. I culled the premices, and it is a subtle satisfaction, even in retrospect, to have kindled flames in Elgin marble breasts. After many years, the breasts tend to forget…Do they remember our ecstasies on Thames and at Thame? Do they remember the poems they inspired? Let them blush as they read these words in their nuptial couches: I have not forgotten a single kiss. At the same time let them rest assured that with age I have learnt discretion."

- Harold Acton, Memoirs of an Aesthete



i’ve never properly understood why people suddenly decided to call everything “media” when there is a perfectly good word for the same thing and the word is “art”. i’m sure we have american higher education to thank for this somehow

i know it might feel galling and ludicrous to put the word “art”…

Source: unhaunting