fuckyeahpsychedelics: “Winter Heat” by JT Digital Art The infra-redness of that sun really does a number on the retina even on a little screen. It’s so obviously fake, yet the intensity of color gives it a power it doesn’t really earn—scary-plastic rather than merely affectless. I remember once reading a newspaper (I think) review of the first Digable Planets album that cocked a snooty eyebrow toward the lyric, “It’s purple when it snows,” thus proving that the person writing the piece didn’t live in Minnesota, or at least hadn’t been in it from approximately 7 to 9 p.m. between November and March. That said, the purple snow here is closer in hue to the cover of Master of Reality or something, though that’s probably as much to do with its proximity to all that inky black. “Inky” is a good word for everything here, really. But what really catapults this into the insta-stoner hall of fame is that doubled orange dot near the lower right corner, fourth up. Even more than the signature, and the layering, and the digital-effected tree in the purple foreground, far right, and every goddamn thing else, that doubled orange dot is so clearly “painted,” so dewy, like something out of for-little-kids anime, that it gives the whole thing away as an obvious fake. I can’t take my eyes off of it.

fuckyeahpsychedelics:

“Winter Heat” by JT Digital Art

The infra-redness of that sun really does a number on the retina even on a little screen. It’s so obviously fake, yet the intensity of color gives it a power it doesn’t really earn—scary-plastic rather than merely affectless. I remember once reading a newspaper (I think) review of the first Digable Planets album that cocked a snooty eyebrow toward the lyric, “It’s purple when it snows,” thus proving that the person writing the piece didn’t live in Minnesota, or at least hadn’t been in it from approximately 7 to 9 p.m. between November and March. That said, the purple snow here is closer in hue to the cover of Master of Reality or something, though that’s probably as much to do with its proximity to all that inky black. “Inky” is a good word for everything here, really. But what really catapults this into the insta-stoner hall of fame is that doubled orange dot near the lower right corner, fourth up. Even more than the signature, and the layering, and the digital-effected tree in the purple foreground, far right, and every goddamn thing else, that doubled orange dot is so clearly “painted,” so dewy, like something out of for-little-kids anime, that it gives the whole thing away as an obvious fake. I can’t take my eyes off of it.

This is what I mean when I keep seeing that the late ’80s and early ’90s are back. Especially in fashion, it seems, though that may be more to do with my following all those rise-of-the-super-duper-model fashion image blogs to feed The 20th Century in Pictures. (And because I love ‘em.) I’ll allow that for all I know (one step at a time), this is actually a few years old and the T-shirt is of recent-to-‘97 vintage, and I’m not going to pretend I know enough about style vicissitudes to 100% ID it be able to as such. But it strikes me as echt-‘91 or so: the cut of the sleeves, the starchy look of the jeans’ front, the post-Queen Latifah earrings, even the facial expression—urban fashion’s rise in the slicks via hip-hop mags and Spin. The Missy lyric came along way later, but it’s still “‘90s” enough for that to fly.

This is what I mean when I keep seeing that the late ’80s and early ’90s are back. Especially in fashion, it seems, though that may be more to do with my following all those rise-of-the-super-duper-model fashion image blogs to feed The 20th Century in Pictures. (And because I love ‘em.) I’ll allow that for all I know (one step at a time), this is actually a few years old and the T-shirt is of recent-to-‘97 vintage, and I’m not going to pretend I know enough about style vicissitudes to 100% ID it be able to as such. But it strikes me as echt-‘91 or so: the cut of the sleeves, the starchy look of the jeans’ front, the post-Queen Latifah earrings, even the facial expression—urban fashion’s rise in the slicks via hip-hop mags and Spin. The Missy lyric came along way later, but it’s still “‘90s” enough for that to fly.

(Source: hoodniggashit, via hfgl)

Says it all, doesn’t it? He must have come on so strong at the beginning feeling even more daredevilish than usual. He obviously had an ego as large as anything else, but there must have been some private disbelief that he’d landed the most frankly gorgeous woman in a town not short of frank gorgeousness, however made up. “Made up” doesn’t begin to tell it, really, with Rita Canseco’s hairline moved like a goalpost and the hair itself lightened. An illusion: just the thing for Welles, whose manner was so stagy as a matter of course that he demanded total attention at all times or nothing. So here she is giving him nothing, the surest way to drive someone like him crazy. They’re my favorite-ever Hollywood couple by default, really—they’ve occupied enough head-space apiece, on their own, that bringing them together there is almost anticlimactic, as it was in life.

Says it all, doesn’t it? He must have come on so strong at the beginning feeling even more daredevilish than usual. He obviously had an ego as large as anything else, but there must have been some private disbelief that he’d landed the most frankly gorgeous woman in a town not short of frank gorgeousness, however made up. “Made up” doesn’t begin to tell it, really, with Rita Canseco’s hairline moved like a goalpost and the hair itself lightened. An illusion: just the thing for Welles, whose manner was so stagy as a matter of course that he demanded total attention at all times or nothing. So here she is giving him nothing, the surest way to drive someone like him crazy. They’re my favorite-ever Hollywood couple by default, really—they’ve occupied enough head-space apiece, on their own, that bringing them together there is almost anticlimactic, as it was in life.

(via picturepurrrfect)

Is anybody harder to see with fresh eyes? She really was a dreamboat in part because she seemed hazy, so when she was sharp it could be a surprise. She seems to have grown more comfortable in her own mind over the years, which is usually what happens when you’re poor, never mind when you look like Marilyn Monroe before there’s even a name for it. There’s so much to purely like—she’s like a peach, complete with fuzz. Her plain sweetness is penetrating. And her eyes seem guarded more than come-hither, which I think is the secret of why you can stare at this image for minutes and not once feel merely pervy.

Is anybody harder to see with fresh eyes? She really was a dreamboat in part because she seemed hazy, so when she was sharp it could be a surprise. She seems to have grown more comfortable in her own mind over the years, which is usually what happens when you’re poor, never mind when you look like Marilyn Monroe before there’s even a name for it. There’s so much to purely like—she’s like a peach, complete with fuzz. Her plain sweetness is penetrating. And her eyes seem guarded more than come-hither, which I think is the secret of why you can stare at this image for minutes and not once feel merely pervy.

(via abrahammx)

All I know about the woman whose blog this comes from is that she’s young, lives in northern California, is obsessed with fashion, seems to take or scan all her own photos, and has a good eye. There are a lot of people like her on Tumblr that I follow—young women who care a lot about style and read magazines I never did or wanted to, young women of the type I avoided as a young man because I was convinced I had nothing in common with them. At the time, I didn’t—I couldn’t have cared less about the trappings of the suburban and/or moneyed-tailored lifestyle that fashion so often denoted. I liked my suburbs in revolt—I was a raver. I wanted a bohemian life to the exclusion of other types, and sometimes that’s the place I’m most comfortable. But growing up and realizing what an unconscious jerk I’d been to some of the nicest people I knew in school because I had some cockheaded idea about what my social role was supposed to be (I took being an outcast a little too literally sometimes—which outcast doesn’t?) is certainly part of it. But Tumblr itself has increased my agog at images, emboldened my sense of my eye as well as my ear (and made me realize just closely related they are), and along with that it’s made me realize how much I get out of all kinds of visual culture—and all kinds of people who make it.

All I know about the woman whose blog this comes from is that she’s young, lives in northern California, is obsessed with fashion, seems to take or scan all her own photos, and has a good eye. There are a lot of people like her on Tumblr that I follow—young women who care a lot about style and read magazines I never did or wanted to, young women of the type I avoided as a young man because I was convinced I had nothing in common with them. At the time, I didn’t—I couldn’t have cared less about the trappings of the suburban and/or moneyed-tailored lifestyle that fashion so often denoted. I liked my suburbs in revolt—I was a raver. I wanted a bohemian life to the exclusion of other types, and sometimes that’s the place I’m most comfortable. But growing up and realizing what an unconscious jerk I’d been to some of the nicest people I knew in school because I had some cockheaded idea about what my social role was supposed to be (I took being an outcast a little too literally sometimes—which outcast doesn’t?) is certainly part of it. But Tumblr itself has increased my agog at images, emboldened my sense of my eye as well as my ear (and made me realize just closely related they are), and along with that it’s made me realize how much I get out of all kinds of visual culture—and all kinds of people who make it.

santobordello: Is there a more period-specific picture in history? Christ, even the tree looks mid-’70s. Maybe it’s the depth of the green and yellow in the leaves, but whatever—all the details add lusciously to the effect. It starts with those bangs, their hatchety-feathery cascade, and the way the rest of the hair falls and follows suit, like the feathered shoulders Eno wore in Roxy Music. The turquoise bracelets and multiple rings on her fingers are a natural outgrowth of the ‘do, as is the orange blouse. It bleeds onto the car itself, the red/orange/blue lettering echoing the star herself. It’s innocent and weary at the same time, just like her expression—and that combination defines the ’70s, or at least the way we see it now.

santobordello:

Is there a more period-specific picture in history? Christ, even the tree looks mid-’70s. Maybe it’s the depth of the green and yellow in the leaves, but whatever—all the details add lusciously to the effect. It starts with those bangs, their hatchety-feathery cascade, and the way the rest of the hair falls and follows suit, like the feathered shoulders Eno wore in Roxy Music. The turquoise bracelets and multiple rings on her fingers are a natural outgrowth of the ‘do, as is the orange blouse. It bleeds onto the car itself, the red/orange/blue lettering echoing the star herself. It’s innocent and weary at the same time, just like her expression—and that combination defines the ’70s, or at least the way we see it now.

(via abrahammx)

awesomepeoplehangingouttogether: Ron Wood and Eric Clapton Individually and even in this photo they exemplify everything jaded and so-what about their era’s mega-rock, the jaded and so-what part somewhat recently underway by the looks of the photo. But they look too happy for me to resist the image. Clapton is one of those guys who seems unassuming or smug enough not to radiate anywhere near his fame level, but by the looks of this he’s probably the funniest motherfucker in the world to six or seven people. Woody’s in repose, and he looks sober, which as far as I can tell is nearly a first in photographic history. The shot’s unplanned color scheming works in its favor, big-time: the ’70s were way too colorful at the time, but now that all the film is fading (go with me here), that faded lustre makes the orange and red pop out all the brighter, and adds, of all things, resonance to the blue denim. They were so young and relatively pressed once. Is this a hotel room or a houseboat?

awesomepeoplehangingouttogether:

Ron Wood and Eric Clapton

Individually and even in this photo they exemplify everything jaded and so-what about their era’s mega-rock, the jaded and so-what part somewhat recently underway by the looks of the photo. But they look too happy for me to resist the image. Clapton is one of those guys who seems unassuming or smug enough not to radiate anywhere near his fame level, but by the looks of this he’s probably the funniest motherfucker in the world to six or seven people. Woody’s in repose, and he looks sober, which as far as I can tell is nearly a first in photographic history. The shot’s unplanned color scheming works in its favor, big-time: the ’70s were way too colorful at the time, but now that all the film is fading (go with me here), that faded lustre makes the orange and red pop out all the brighter, and adds, of all things, resonance to the blue denim. They were so young and relatively pressed once. Is this a hotel room or a houseboat?

itsdelovely: I’M OBSESSED WITH YOUR FACE Was Sherilyn Fenn the first post-Madonna glamour girl? Certainly she’s one of the first to bear striking similarities—the painted eyebrow, the mole of course; even here, the dress and styling shares its year with Dick Tracy in more ways than one. But what made her great was the sense—certainly with Audrey Horne, but also with Fenn herself—that she was goofy and vulnerable and nice beneath all that daunting bone structure. One of the great Prince-fan moments of the last few years was reading her long blog posts about knowing him circa this time, and of course he was obsessed with her too: she’s not just the innocent bad girl Madonna’s never been completely convincing as (not so innocent—and no, that’s not remotely an insult), she’s a kind of ultimate Prince girl. But she came into view at the tail end of when Prince girls had a shred of currency, and in a sense she was lost in time. (No one even remembers that Prince gave Carmen Electra her start, despite the brazenly obvious fact that no one but him would have made up that name.) She’ll work forever, and she deserves to; she’s fun to watch, and not just for the looks. But the 15-year-old in me will never get over her, and the adult in me is glad, because it’s given me high standards.

itsdelovely:

I’M OBSESSED WITH YOUR FACE

Was Sherilyn Fenn the first post-Madonna glamour girl? Certainly she’s one of the first to bear striking similarities—the painted eyebrow, the mole of course; even here, the dress and styling shares its year with Dick Tracy in more ways than one. But what made her great was the sense—certainly with Audrey Horne, but also with Fenn herself—that she was goofy and vulnerable and nice beneath all that daunting bone structure. One of the great Prince-fan moments of the last few years was reading her long blog posts about knowing him circa this time, and of course he was obsessed with her too: she’s not just the innocent bad girl Madonna’s never been completely convincing as (not so innocent—and no, that’s not remotely an insult), she’s a kind of ultimate Prince girl. But she came into view at the tail end of when Prince girls had a shred of currency, and in a sense she was lost in time. (No one even remembers that Prince gave Carmen Electra her start, despite the brazenly obvious fact that no one but him would have made up that name.) She’ll work forever, and she deserves to; she’s fun to watch, and not just for the looks. But the 15-year-old in me will never get over her, and the adult in me is glad, because it’s given me high standards.

(via awakyn)

Some images border on kitsch but stay just on the right side of it, and this is one of them. There’s nothing quite plannable about it—embellished, sure, but it looks like a real moment, caught almost by accident; it strikes me as an instant perennial (I caught it in the stream from Vivid Ap[peal], at a point when it had four notes), though I’m terrible about guessing which images I occasionally mine for will end up catching on somehow. Often it’s the very simplest stuff, and that’s what this is: very simple, and very instant. It’s not kitsch, but it may end up becoming that way from overuse, if in fact it catches on.

Some images border on kitsch but stay just on the right side of it, and this is one of them. There’s nothing quite plannable about it—embellished, sure, but it looks like a real moment, caught almost by accident; it strikes me as an instant perennial (I caught it in the stream from Vivid Ap[peal], at a point when it had four notes), though I’m terrible about guessing which images I occasionally mine for will end up catching on somehow. Often it’s the very simplest stuff, and that’s what this is: very simple, and very instant. It’s not kitsch, but it may end up becoming that way from overuse, if in fact it catches on.

(via ershu)

Two years ago, for weeks and months I would walk by the Angelika Film Center on my way to and from my girlfriend’s place in Soho (she’s since moved uptown, and we’ve since broken up). Every time I or we would pass it heading east on Houston to Broadway (we were inevitably heading uptown), we would see the poster for Whatever Works, Woody Allen’s movie starring Larry David. I’m not much of a fan of latter-day Woody; the most recent I checked out was Match Point, which I loathed, and Angela hadn’t cared too greatly for Vicky Christina Barcelona. So I wasn’t inclined to care much one way or the other about the new one. The Angelika kept showing the damn movie for what seemed like an entire quarter past its natural life, which I guess is part of the contract if you’re the Angelika—you’re the place that shows Woody Allen movies for months at a time, for the tourists. C’est la vie. The same had occurred for VCB and neither of us cared that much. It was the poster. It drove us nuts. It’s Larry David shrugging; really shrugging. As in, “Why the fuck would anyone in their right mind be bothered to part with their time and/or money to watch me dither around for 90 minutes as the alter ego of a guy who keeps making the same fucking movie over and over again?” When the poster finally went away, champagne was broken out (not really).

Two years ago, for weeks and months I would walk by the Angelika Film Center on my way to and from my girlfriend’s place in Soho (she’s since moved uptown, and we’ve since broken up). Every time I or we would pass it heading east on Houston to Broadway (we were inevitably heading uptown), we would see the poster for Whatever Works, Woody Allen’s movie starring Larry David. I’m not much of a fan of latter-day Woody; the most recent I checked out was Match Point, which I loathed, and Angela hadn’t cared too greatly for Vicky Christina Barcelona. So I wasn’t inclined to care much one way or the other about the new one. The Angelika kept showing the damn movie for what seemed like an entire quarter past its natural life, which I guess is part of the contract if you’re the Angelika—you’re the place that shows Woody Allen movies for months at a time, for the tourists. C’est la vie. The same had occurred for VCB and neither of us cared that much. It was the poster. It drove us nuts. It’s Larry David shrugging; really shrugging. As in, “Why the fuck would anyone in their right mind be bothered to part with their time and/or money to watch me dither around for 90 minutes as the alter ego of a guy who keeps making the same fucking movie over and over again?” When the poster finally went away, champagne was broken out (not really).

(Source: upthedownone, via lepetitrene)