re : joy

The last witness of that summer of 2010. I fell fucking hard, kissed the asphalt, nicked my elbows and my knees. Cried pretty damn hard, as she scooped me off the road (in the same way J.Kennedy, in shock, turns to watch her husband's brains blow out behind him, grasps thin air, tries to scoop.) Bundles me on the back of a cab at midnight, we try to get over my fall (I can't)
Fast forward to the present, we've been merry-go-rounding that summer/fall/winter for a few years now. Got off individually at different intervals, but I think she got off for good now.

We're all bound by something, what is real life compared to this elaborate fantasy we've got ourselves in?
i'm too tightly wound.

fia rouge x me

T.

" I am a millennial. Generation Y, born between the birth of aids and 9/11 give or take. They call us the Global Generation. We are known for our entitlement and narcissism. Some say it’s because we’re the first generation where every kid gets a trophy just for showing up. Others think it’s because social media allows us to post whenever we fart or have a sandwich for all the world to see. But it seems that our one defining trait is a numbness to the world, an indifference to suffering. I know that I did anything I could to not feel — sex, drugs, booze. Just take away the pain. "

sketch. 2011

-

graphite and ink drawings
A3

mi mujer 2

Maan x kevin x rats 
Photos and makeup by me

 27 july//

mi mujer//


mixed media
70x50cm

steampunk bees and dragonflies

i had fun making/re arranging these

clockparts on found insects

mr p

mr p.

painted clay sculpture

some long overdue paintings from 2012

oil on canvas. 

experiencing life as a dirty whore with a naive (curious) sense of wonder

Everything adds up to a weird mood - of staring at gasoline rainbows in dirty puddles of unknown gas stations in a quiet town, the air reeks, an uncomfortable song (linking to an uncomfortable memory) starts in your mind and i remember first learning about sex as a 7 year old. Stale lighting of 80's porn, creepy hotel rooms and cold air between split virgin thighs. 

it makes me disgusted, achey, i have to puke the wretchedness out and 

maybe commit suicide while listening to cat power

goodbye ):

i miss you sleeping on my coat/scarf/clothes/bag and coming to headbump me in the morning

unusual space headed trippy dreams i remember it as vividly as speeding over a collapsing bridge in a red car, the sky was blue, then green, then red and then nothingness. I was scared, alone, found in a new situation, it is too cold and i start to heave and feel nothing but hatred for everyone in the entire world

unfiltered version of an old upload

screencap of the virgin suicides, cecilia

watercolour and chalk on paper

ink on paper

sold.

i got this lovely wet plate as a present from Pieter van Hal's studio, shot by Shannah van der Wal. my mama and i. And i really think she looks like Uma Thurman here, or it could just be the hair. I took it with my phone, it does not do justice to the actual piece, but its really really really lovely

lou-huffing. i like you, cat.

 maan x me x eva

me x Maan Limburg (mamacat)

visual happiness

/ponymother :3

i left my heart somewhere among the 6am blue forests, quiet roads, snowed in streets. i licked the icicles on someone's frozen pipes and got my tongue stuck, drank champagne till i was dizzy, danced in clubs, slipped so many times, watched fireworks and screamed as one on new year's day.

im super super happy to go back to belonging somewhere

7 wips at a go. sleep is for the weak. i have oil paint all over my face so now i am one with my medium

we are so postmodern

Creativity is uncomfortable. It is their dissatisfaction with the present that drives them on to make changes. Creative people, like those with psychotic illnesses, tend to see the world differently to most. It's like looking at a shattered mirror. They see the world in a fractured way.

( MARK MILLARD )

Got it off expose's blog this morning. we are so postmodern

A picture i did today with crystal. i love working with like-minded people. similar visual interests. There's a girl i haven't got the chance to photograph yet, she's so destructively beautiful and she writes poetry. We've never met, but we've bumped into each other without knowing. I love these girls i photograph. Half the time, they're not the typical brand of beauty but theres something else about them.. something other people don't seem to see and it frustrates me. I want to turn into a shadow, a ghost, and photograph their moments. She calls me a shadowghost. i like that term. we live in our own lonely bubbles. And maybe she would come close enough to stick, and i can feel how she's feeling and it's intense. Like a storm

in 42 days i will be gone
back to a cold, comfortable shape of a home
and to late afternoon walks in snow and running in the frozen air makes the back of my throat taste copper and spit blood. There will be the everything as I left it, the bathroom and slight hum of the washing machine when the house wakes up in the morning. Cold floorboards (i need to be reminded to wear socks) and a thorough emptiness of landscape. I remind me, one is missing, one is missing. And before i go fucking hysterical she takes the razor away again. Mary slips one into your head and you should learn to relax and get a large triple cheese pizza from the corner shop and some salad from the supermarket. 

T.