exitinsistexist:

from Beauty by Rino Stefano Tagliafierro

(Source: openculture.com, via formandflow)

Total Eclipse 

(via formandflow)

"The thing about patriarchy is that individual men, gay and straight, are often really wonderful people who you love deeply, but they have internalized some really poisonous shit. So every once in a while they say or do something that really shakes you because you’re no longer totally certain they see you as a human being, and you feel totally disempowered to explain that to them."

(via softmonologues)

Have I reblogged this before?

Do I care?

(via stfufauxminists)

My dad is this exactly.

(via rhianathewondrous)

this has been echoing inside me a lot lately

(via babyfemmeshark)

(Source: lasluchasdelcorazon, via she-wrote-the-sky)

(Source: visualproperty, via germanwoof)

See inside

(Source: syubra, via beyoncexknowles)

Mariano Di Vaio

Mariano Di Vaio

(Source: lovingmalemodels, via germanwoof)

myampgoesto11:

Kevin Francis Gray: Temporal Sitter (2011)

(via formandflow)

Tags: art

“Cities were always like people, showing their varying personalities to the traveler. Depending on the city and on the traveler, there might begin a mutual love, or dislike, friendship, or enmity. Where one city will rise a certain individual to glory, it will destroy another who is not suited to its personality. Only through travel can we know where we belong or not, where we are loved and where we are rejected.” ― Roman Payne

Be cool, people. Be cool people. 

she-wrote-the-sky:

Nymphs and Satyr (Nymphes et Satires) (1873) - William-Adolphe Bouguereau; oil on canvas.

This is one of my mum’s favourite paintings. She always used to say, when I was little, that she loved it because the women seemed so real, so curvy and in control, unashamed, powerful, and proud of their bodies. She took me to an art museum in Massachusetts, several times throughout my childhood, where I’d walk through the cold glass doors and neutral hallway into a massive room with deep crimson walls. The nymphs would be hanging there on the wall, a huge painting, several feet tall, the largest of the collection. I stood before it, a tiny girl, impressionable and naive and new to the world, dwarfed by this immense, vibrant canvas, absolutely alive and dancing in front of my eyes, and I was swept away by the beauty. I didn’t entirely understand it, but I felt it in every inch of my body. This is the power of art.

Some days, when I’m not feeling too good about my body, when I look in the mirror and see nothing but flaws and things to be changed, and feel my strength crumbling away until I’m too weak to stand… I try to remind myself of these nymphs, of the crimson room, the dancing paint and singing canvas. I twist my body, raising my arms, mimicking their oh-so-lifelike movements, and sometimes I can see myself with them, just as strong, just as in control, just as beautiful. This is the power of art.

I can’t wait to stand in front of it again, 10, 12, 13 years older now; a very different person from that little girl, someone who is now wise to the world, weary, marked and beaten by life like a hammered piece of silver. One day, I’ll stand in front of it again, the crimson walls enclosing me like a womb. Maybe I still won’t entirely understand it. Maybe I’ll stand beside another little girl, who is seeing it for the first time. I’ll smile at her and begin to sway my arms. I’ll twist and twirl my body and we’ll dance - other people’s bemused gazes be damned! I’ll be alive again, this oiled power runs in my veins, in her veins. It will always be a reminder that we are strong, powerful, beautiful just as we are. This is the power of art.

Just incredible.

she-wrote-the-sky:

Nymphs and Satyr (Nymphes et Satires) (1873) - William-Adolphe Bouguereau; oil on canvas.

This is one of my mum’s favourite paintings. She always used to say, when I was little, that she loved it because the women seemed so real, so curvy and in control, unashamed, powerful, and proud of their bodies. She took me to an art museum in Massachusetts, several times throughout my childhood, where I’d walk through the cold glass doors and neutral hallway into a massive room with deep crimson walls. The nymphs would be hanging there on the wall, a huge painting, several feet tall, the largest of the collection. I stood before it, a tiny girl, impressionable and naive and new to the world, dwarfed by this immense, vibrant canvas, absolutely alive and dancing in front of my eyes, and I was swept away by the beauty. I didn’t entirely understand it, but I felt it in every inch of my body. This is the power of art.

Some days, when I’m not feeling too good about my body, when I look in the mirror and see nothing but flaws and things to be changed, and feel my strength crumbling away until I’m too weak to stand… I try to remind myself of these nymphs, of the crimson room, the dancing paint and singing canvas. I twist my body, raising my arms, mimicking their oh-so-lifelike movements, and sometimes I can see myself with them, just as strong, just as in control, just as beautiful. This is the power of art.

I can’t wait to stand in front of it again, 10, 12, 13 years older now; a very different person from that little girl, someone who is now wise to the world, weary, marked and beaten by life like a hammered piece of silver. One day, I’ll stand in front of it again, the crimson walls enclosing me like a womb. Maybe I still won’t entirely understand it. Maybe I’ll stand beside another little girl, who is seeing it for the first time. I’ll smile at her and begin to sway my arms. I’ll twist and twirl my body and we’ll dance - other people’s bemused gazes be damned! I’ll be alive again, this oiled power runs in my veins, in her veins. It will always be a reminder that we are strong, powerful, beautiful just as we are. This is the power of art.

Just incredible.

Tags: art classic

Men, not boys. Well dressed and beautiful. 

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