Saffron harvest in Herat province, Afghanistan.
Photographs by Majid Saeedi/Getty Images.
“Heirloom” Pop-Up Art Book by Alison Ann Woodward unfolds piece by piece to reveal the anatomy of a white horned creature.
One of my favorite things ever
i love this
I got to perform alongside Squanto, Butcher Boy, and Sianna Plavin amongst Meredith Younger and Will Schaff’s beautiful installations at 186 Carpenter Street. A lot of Will’s work is inspired by/for his friend Jason Molina, the brilliant musician behind Songs: Ohia and Magnolia Electric Co., who passed away last year. It felt like an incredible blessing to be able to sing amongst his ghost.
I’m really happy to see this. although i wasn’t there, i felt a lot of this instillation from afar (and through instagram)
Thanks Noel’le! Thanks Alisha!
(A New Chaotic Star)
There is a profound logic here: an organization of magic, an overlapping of bodies and wilderness, a weaving of power and grace in fingers and fronds—a blossoming of self and bursting of flower. There is a harnessing here—but not a domestication. It is a gift of the wild that we may heal ourselves and each other, and it is a gift to Being that it heals itself. But—there is also a call for fire, an urgent cry to destroy that which would destroy the generosity of this world. There is a voice that can be heard echoing—or many voices; the wind in the pines and the lungs of the loons whispers its way into and out of the chests of Us—the Hungry. The Dying. The Loving. The hurting. The angry. There is an undeniable reciprocity between us and everything else, to the point where even the border of that vague distinction dissolves back into the luminous darkness. There is a nameless and boundless shape in that void, real and tangible as our bodies.
We have been taught to be terrified of the love and rage that lies hidden in the alphabet the birds trace over the thin skims of ice that cradle the moon to the earth. We have been taught to be terrified of the spells and curses we trace into each other’s skins—for curses they may be.
In this vanishing and untameable wilderness there is evidence for the truth and necessity of Queerness, Anarchism, and Witchcraft at every turn. Every dropping of berry, every migration, every caress, every track we abandon in desert or snow is a reminder of it. The names we give these things are constructed, ephemeral noises; graves for themselves. The power they are nests for is eternal.