AG13

"y de probar los remanentes de sudor en la piel delgada de partes que rara vez ven el sol en el..."

Sat, 18 May 2013 12:46:17 +0800

“y de probar los remanentes de sudor en la piel delgada de partes que rara vez ven el sol en el cuerpo de una mujer satisfecha…”

- AG13

ART + life

Sun, 12 May 2013 23:14:22 +0800

A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperament

let art be your life

let your temperament be your gospel

lucidity is overrated by those who only find results within the lines

the only real temperament is reasonless

irrationality will be shun

but so have all who have changed this earth in the slightest

med-coutureretailer: Garments by Over...

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 10:23:35 +0800

med-coutureretailer:

Garments by Over Garment
www.med-coutureretailer.tumblr.com
Accessories by Junk Everywhere
Photography by Andres Espinoza
http://andres-espinosa.tumblr.com/
Modeling and production by M Paula Rey

med-coutureretailer: Garments by Over...

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 10:23:26 +0800

med-coutureretailer:

Garments by Over Garment
www.med-coutureretailer.tumblr.com
Accessories by Junk Everywhere
Photography by Andres Espinoza
http://andres-espinosa.tumblr.com/
Modeling and production by M Paula Rey

thesouthamerican: Metal engraving! Handmade! :) Love to all the...

Tue, 23 Apr 2013 23:41:55 +0800

thesouthamerican:

Metal engraving! Handmade! :) Love to all the hexagons out there.

Despues de un tiempo - J.L.B.

Tue, 23 Apr 2013 12:28:32 +0800

Después de un tiempo, uno aprende la sutil diferencia entre sostener una mano y encadenar un alma, y uno aprende que el amor no significa acostarse y una compañía no significa seguridad, y uno empieza a aprender… que los besos no son contratos y los regalos no son promesas, y uno empieza a aceptar sus derrotas con la cabeza alta y los ojos abiertos, y uno aprende a construir todos sus caminos en el hoy, porque el terreno de mañana es demasiado inseguro para planes… y los futuros tienen una forma de caerse en la mitad. Y después de un tiempo uno aprende que si es demasiado, hasta el calor del sol quema. Así que uno planta su propio jardín y decora su propia alma, en lugar de esperar a que alguien le traiga flores. Y uno aprende que realmente puede aguantar, que uno realmente es fuerte, que uno realmente vale, y uno prende y aprende… y con cada día uno aprende. Con el tiempo aprendes que estar con alguien porque te ofrece un buen futuro significa que tarde o temprano querrás volver a tu pasado. Con el tiempo comprendes que sólo quien es capaz de amarte con tus defectos, sin pretender cambiarte, puede brindarte toda la felicidad que deseas. Con el tiempo te das cuenta de que si estás al lado de esa persona sólo por acompañar tusoledad, irremediablemente acabarás no deseando volver a verla. Con el tiempo entiendes que los verdaderos amigos son contados, y que el que no lucha por ellos tarde o temprano se verá rodeado sólo de amistades falsas. Con el tiempo aprendes que las palabras dichas en un momento de ira pueden seguir lastimando a quien heriste, durante toda la vida. Con el tiempo aprendes que disculpar cualquiera lo hace, pero perdonar es sólo de almas grandes. Con el tiempo comprendes que si has herido a un amigo duramente, muy probablemente la amistad jamás volverá a ser igual. Con el tiempo te das cuenta que aunque seas feliz con tus amigos, algún día llorarás por aquellos que dejaste ir. Con el tiempo te das cuenta de que cada experiencia vivida con cada persona es irrepetible. Con el tiempo te das cuenta de que el que humilla o desprecia a un ser humano, tarde o temprano sufrirá las mismas humillaciones o desprecios multiplicados al cuadrado. Con el tiempo comprendes que apresurar las cosas o forzarlas a que pasen ocasionará que al final no sean como esperabas. Con el tiempo te das cuenta de que en realidad lo mejor no era el futuro, sino el momento que estabas viviendo justo en ese instante. Con el tiempo verás que aunque seas feliz con los que están a tu lado, añorarás terriblemente a los que ayer estaban contigo y ahora se han marchado. Con el tiempo aprenderás que intentar perdonar o pedir perdón, decir que amas, decir que extrañas, decir que necesitas, decir que quieres ser amigo, ante una tumba, ya no tiene ningún sentido. Pero desafortunadamente, sólo con el tiempo.

S.C.C.

FASHION+sweatpants

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 08:11:00 +0800

I believe it is unfair for a woman to be able to wear leopard-print-leggings and look comfortable chic while men lack the counterpart. I wear black sweatpants all day and they are comfortable but clearly not in fashion, and not chic enough. Black sweatpants have never been in fashion and have never been part of the main code of dress. I find them to be cheap, light, flexible, discreet, simple, resistant, thermic, mendable, and disposable. It is hard if not impossible to find a worthy clothing rival of such convenience. If I were a fashion designer, I would create a cheap, light, flexible, discreet, simple, resistant, thermic, mendable, and disposable piece that would fit into fashion. I would do all these things ignoring the fact that there is already a cheap, light, flexible, discreet, simple, resistant, thermic, mendable, and disposable piece of un-fashionable fashion which are black sweatpants. Maybe all we need to achieve is for the sweatpants to be part of a fashion show and voila! suddenly they are all acceptable and probably a bit more expensive but accesible in brand-shops. I have always believed that if fashion is ever-changing and somewhat cyclical, there will be a time when sweatpants become the shit of clothing pieces. Then and only then will I be a true hipster that always repeats “I liked black sweatpants before they were cool”. Although right now, I believe sweatpants to be pretty cool, cheap, light, flexible, discreet, simple, resistant, thermic, mendable, and disposable but not pretty pretty. And yet again, how important is fashion? Some will stand by the point of saying it is everything but it clearly not true. Nothing is everything. If it is, then there is something we are ignoring or not understanding. So how importan is fashion after all?

There seems to be an innate yet loose connection between clothing and what we, the ones that wear said clothing, think. Some ideologies support the cheap wear to the point of spending more money in order to be part of the ideology, than the money that would be originally spent for the sake of merely dressing. Some ideology supports a certain chain of command, so if a certain fashion designer or show or magazine comes up with anything, be it ridiculous, visually uncomfortable or simply vane, then the piece will become accepted and important.

So if I see a girl with a grey cardigan, is she wearing it because of an ideology? Because of respect to a chain of fashion command? Because it is effective? Because it is efficient? Or simply because it was inexpensive and cool? And if she defends that the piece of clothing speaks about how she thinks, how is it really effective at showing what someone thinks if the piece can be interpreted in all the previous ways? I guess its not only one piece but an entire attire that composes fashion, even for ideological reasons. Reason enough to use old earrings or for leopart-print to be popular once again, regardless of the voluptuous amount of visual over charge. So in the end, there is no piece of clothing that shows precisely what we think; to begin with because most pieces of clothing we buy is bought and someone else made it and someone else is meant to wear it too. It is the set of clothing we wear, and still in this way there are plenty of things that can be misunderstood or equated to some other bloke who wears exactly what you do, but acts completely different.

So, how hard is it to change the way people dress or to instaurate a new fashion strand? First, it would have to have a designer or a really stupid idea behind it (although seemingly identical). Secondly, it would have to be innovative to a certain degree. Third, it would have to be accessible to most.

Even back in the 60’s when leather was in, but no one had the chance to get it, people would buy leather print or leather imitation clothing and apparel articles. So there are indeed some ways of going about accessibility on fashion. Nonetheless for it to be fashion we need for it to be accepted by the majority or by authority. Imitation was never quite like leather though.

So I am a designer, and I have this stupid idea of comfort (I know, fuck me, right?). Wearing sweatpants is innovative in the sense that there has never been black sweatpants in a fashion show. Ever. Thirdly, we need a majority to like them, and to stop wearing them in order to achieve this is a contradiction. To wear something despite the general opinion of it is apparently a must in innovation. There are certainly a huge amount of people that wear them, else there wouldn’t be anyone selling them and no one would know what sweatpants are. Nonetheless every single person knows what sweatpants are.

Few regard sweatpants as showing what they think, but just a mere idea of comfort and efficiency. It is so simple and so scarce in ideologies that sweat pants are probably the last house of a common aspect of ideology of use: Convenience.

So I’ll just wait until there is a stupid idea or designer authority that proposes implicitly that black sweatpants rock and I will simply carry on. Black sweatpants rock, and they are cheap, light, flexible, discreet, simple, resistant, thermic, mendable, and disposable. One way or the other, the solution will never be to stop using them. This is my ideology of convenience and ultimate male comfort. Let me be.

Stop discrimination towards men, or something.

I just want to be comfortable.

:)

Fri, 19 Apr 2013 07:49:56 +0800

"The ‘deep’ stuff of life."

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 14:01:11 +0800

“The ‘deep’ stuff of life.”

- V.T.B.

TAKEN + given

Sat, 13 Apr 2013 15:33:34 +0800

You have no Idea what you’ve taken from me. I stand alone in the darkness of my nest, smelling the degrading matter on the white seat ever nearer. Inhaling its revolting fumes. I listen to a distant sound of the days when humanity could be trusted, when magic used to exist, when women were fair and men were just.

What has happened now to that young boy who sought to find the power in him? What has happened to the believer there once was inside this carcass? You have taken him. And he no longer pledges allegiance to your pink flag. He wishes you to walk far away from his imagination and never return. Dont show yourself at all. Go away let me be at peace. Let me become the dust i am destined to be. Dont stir my slumber, dont quiet the silence.

I once believed the sincere wish of a man was worth everything, but it was naive to think that the world would bow down to sheer desire. I am confronted with the demons you’ve left behind. The ghost of a friend you have involved me to love. The friend that talks and is like you but simply is not. The ghost is careful and quiet at times, she keeps distant but not enough. She still aids your resolve, and my imagination weakens with every thought. She is a ghost. Just a remembrance of the hope humanity should have and the knowing that ignorance is bliss. When you know a simple life is also honorable and when you know that purity lies in simple-mindedness and ignorance, it is too late. You are now an observer and outside the limit lies the destiny you will never reach.

The only destiny you can hope to attain is the sacrifice for those who still rejoice in data-less playgrounds. Suddenly a responsibility you did not accept plummets upon you and the only way out is through. If you wish to live in the ignorance of the only truth you have known and betray yourself in every step, i cannot help you, and to me you are dead. Drag your remains away from my perfectly white desert. Let the wind of the void come and sing their song of light. I release you from your duty, you may now leave me and haunt another eery bystander. I command you to release me from the duty of relay.

I do not wish to hate you, but at times finding my lost son amongst this infinite riverbed seems journey enough for the unwanted task of carrying your slow pace at my side. I do not wish to hate you, but you have no idea what you’ve given to me.

Truth is a gift that few can bare. And in giving me such burden my legs seem brittle and not enough. Take your truth and find someone else to trouble; you are not welcome anymore. Your yellow room with perfect view has been brought to the ground and in its stead a stone sphere has been erected. It is there to remind me that only when you can carry your own truth must you give truth to others, and may destiny save me from causing on to others what you’ve caused in me.

I will now carry my own. I hope you learn how to hold yourself in place as well, but as the unlikely stranger once said: I am not your beast of burden.

Farewell stranger we could love. It is time to face my future, and it seems you are not in it. I am the desert, and always welcoming to the few who seek the light. There is no place for the shadow here. Turn away until you’ve learnt your lesson. I am the place of slumber and awakening. I am the arena of the battle in you, and I weep and the sand pours down the hollow boney cheek of my only certain lover, and I will never have any idea of what I’ve taken and given, but I will come victorious in the end. For I am the desert and the valley of death, and I shall love all evil. In white dunes I shall lay my head, I shall sit where your table lay and my cup will certainly be void. Death will be my guest and my enemies will be the dust we move upon. Surely his great black robe will follow me to the end of time and his house my body will be. The earth is the earth’s and all who die in it. The word is the dust but the breath to say it, is death. None shall stand in his grim smile, for even the gods of old have perished and in the end, death with death shall be.

I am the desert.

Leave me be.

HATE + knit

Mon, 08 Apr 2013 13:28:43 +0800

I’m guessing being negative towards anyone is the start of your own end. Nobody deserves to be hated. I’ve started falling for envy and hatred towards the life of one specific person. It doesn’t feel right. I wish genuinely for that person to enjoy what life has brought to them. Writing it down takes weight from my shoulders and my soul. I used to wish to have had the chance. I wished to gain similar circumstances. I wished to exchange them all. Now i’ve finally healed and i can rest better now.

I now wish to follow my own path. It is bright and well woven.

"I’d rather trust my life than live in the fear of not colliding"

Sat, 30 Mar 2013 01:09:29 +0800

“I’d rather trust my life than live in the fear of not colliding”

- V.T.B.

Fog - Livestream from Arturo Gutierrez on Vimeo.A Corel Painter...

Thu, 21 Mar 2013 13:37:36 +0800

Fog - Livestream from Arturo Gutierrez on Vimeo.

A Corel Painter 12 sketch detailed to completion in Photoshop CS5. Rainy marshlands to the sound of Quantic.

THE WOODS + the sea

Wed, 20 Mar 2013 08:49:16 +0800

The woods are never solitary– they are full of whispering, beckoning, friendly life. But the sea is a mighty soul, forever moaning of some great, unsharable sorrow which shuts it up into itself for all eternity. We can never pierce it’s infinite mystery– we may only wander, awed and spell-bound, on the outer fringe of it. The woods call us with a hundred voices, but the sea has one only– a mighty voice that drowns our souls in its majestic music. The woods are human, but the sea is of the company of the archangels.

L.M. Montgomery

"…and Cupid is the loneliest of them all…"

Mon, 18 Mar 2013 13:06:30 +0800

“…and Cupid is the loneliest of them all…”

- AG13

Thought. Palette testing. Enjoy! PsCS4 + Wacomb

Sun, 17 Mar 2013 12:52:44 +0800

Thought. Palette testing. Enjoy!

PsCS4 + Wacomb

BALANCE + fish

Fri, 15 Mar 2013 00:38:42 +0800

What is every person looking for. I believe comfort, pleasure and balance. If something you make efforts towards doesn’t give you balance nor pleasure nor comfort, then disregard it.

I once heard a story from my grand father. It told about a great fisherman, he had a small house built on a riverbed, that had a hammock and some of the finest fish hung from their mouth. He lay there all day, waiting for a person to come by and buy his fish. he sold them quite cheap, in contrast to their quality and their size. He went fishing in the morning for merely five of them and then went to lay on his hammock to listen to the birds singing and the wind blowing softly in conversation with the trees. He soon became known for his great product and it was not long before a suited man came to his house. He was curious as to why the fisherman only fished five fish every day and not ten, he had enough clients but he just wouldn’t go over the 5 limit.

He was also curious as to why the price was so low, considering the size and quality, the fish could be worth a fortune. The man in the hammock replied with a question. ‘Why would i want to charge more?’

‘To earn more of course’ the suited man replied.

‘Why would I want to earn more?’

‘So you can spend your money in more things’

‘Why would I want that?’

‘So you can give comfort and peace to the ones around you’

‘Isn’t that what I already have?’

The suited man had no way of answering this question, as the game was up-side down for him. The game was not to become someone, but to realize the someone you already are. The comfort that you seek is a lot simpler than what you believe.

I’ve had this story in my mind lately, and I believe procrastination is only negative in a place where good is measured by efficiency per time in material produce. Procrastination gives way to developing ideas, to philosophy to enjoying the present, to meditation, to observation, to learning, to incredible amount of things. In the end procrastination is nor a barrier, but a tool for those who leave things for later but actually get to the point of doing them.

It may seem as if the procrastinator were useless, but he is using his time wisely if he leaves the acting for the end. Most people work faster under pressure, and having thought of the project for longer, means the concept will be more complete and the building will be cleaner; more efficient.

Nonetheless I worry for those who call themselves procrastinators but in reality are avoiders of their own intellect. Those who not only postpone action but avoid i entirely. The key to procrastination is to eventually finish the project in your mind. No hurry, no bigger end than balance, pleasure and comfort. The present.

Never fish more than what the river provides. Never fish more than what you need to be in peace.

"I’m not in for games anymore, unless it’s a game we both enjoy, and neither of us..."

Thu, 14 Mar 2013 09:57:20 +0800

“I’m not in for games anymore, unless it’s a game we both enjoy, and neither of us looses.”

- AG13

TARDES COMO + esta

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 22:49:00 +0800

TARDES COMO ESTA. Sueño del 14-11-2012.

Era un atardecer de los que brillan morado en la sombra. Chasqueaba cada paso en el barro sutil, lleno de piedras medianas, ramas y agujas de pino. Mis botas de campaña dejaban una singular huella, mas profunda de lo usual, ya que el pesado bedel de gasolina que cargo siempre en tardes como estas, se mecía al compás de mi trote. Caminaba sin rumbo en un bosque de altos pinos, cuya vida recaía en la cima, y su contacto con el piso, aparentaba ser tan muerta como mi expresión. Caminaba y a cada respiro una nueva nube de vapor emanaba de mi boca.

Buscaba lo que siempre busco en tardes como esta. Caminaba por el camino de acceso de los tractores del bosque. Huellas geométricas resultaban desde la cima del monte hasta sus faldas citadinas. Me divertía únicamente el destrozar su geometría con la mía. Y seguía caminando.

Un olor denso de vena de pino mezclada con sangre que ha mantenido quieta durante días empezó a invadir el aire. Sabía que estaba mas cerca. – Si tuviera compañía– pensé – quizás mis ojos brillarían como los de los lobos. Arrojada a las raíces de un tronco, puesta con delicadeza, como los trajes de un monje, se encontraba mirando al cielo con animo de aullido, una cabeza de un lobo café con blanco. Sus órganos como cintas adornaban la base del árbol. Las raíces parecían terminar en los colmillos del lobo.

Sabía lo que tenía que hacer… después de todo, siempre sucede en tardes como esta. Dejando a un lado mi morral, sujeté el bedel con ambas manos. Girando la tapa roja que tantas veces había girado. Mis manos calzaban perfectamente entre los espacios que protruyen desde el centro. Justo cuando gira en un sentido poco familiar, el vapor del dorado liquido inunda mis cavidades nasales, hasta lo que parece ser mi hipotálamo. Ese húmedo olor a muerte y espera. Quité el pedazo de plástico de la tapa, aún vaporando en cada respiro. Agarré mi morral con una mano y me lo coloqué con una tiranta. Con la otra, acerqué la boca de mi bedel, a la boca de mi futura maldición. Dejar que la gasolina fluya libremente sobre alguien o algo, es de los pequeños placeres de la vida que pocos tendrán la avicia de sentir.

Con la primera gota, ambos ojos giraron hacia mi, esos dos ojos color miel sintiendo el quemo de la gasolina, sin otro remedio por ahora que mirarme y yo los miraba a su vez. Cada litro de gasolina le daba mas ira, mas vida, hasta que su boca empezó a mascar el aire, y su garganta empezó a tragar la gasolina. Sus gruñidos acallados por el flujo de dorado que moría, la muestra orgullosa de los dientes filados. Esa expresión de ira que solo un lobo muerto puede comunicar. Con la ultima gota, la cabeza volvió a la vida, y dando a morder con el piso, revoloteaba en el barro y los troncos, mordiendo y despedazando lo que podía alcanzar.

En tardes como esta corro… corro hasta donde mi aliento logre llevarme. En tardes como esta, se que he alebrestado a la bestia, la he despertado, y ella busca venganza. En tardes como esta, la cabeza busca su cuerpo, y so pena de no encontrarlo, roba a su vez, al que pueda del suyo.

Corro al ritmo del violeta. Corro al limite de mi traje y mis botas de campaña. Corro con la audacia que un bedel vacío me permite. Corro hasta encontrar las paredes de cal, de la ciudad que colinda con el bosque. Corro hacia el anochecer. Corro hacia donde mis piernas me lleven. Corro porque temo la cabeza.

Llegando a la ciudad las piernas vuelven a ser humanas y corren, mas torpemente que nunca, pero corren. Las botas de campaña se tornan en zapatos deportivos baratos. El gran abrigo se convierte en una liviana chaqueta gris. Pero el bedel nunca cambia. Los pasos que cambian de la altura del andén a la calzada y viceversa. Los arboles en sus cuadrados permitidos. La gente en sus cubos permitidos. Y sigo buscando el templo. Ya estoy cerca: escucho las campanas. Estaba seguro que era en esta cuadra, pero solo veo bares iluminados de verde y rojo. Las puertas están en el mismo lugar, pero el templo se ha perdido en mi mente. El templo es ahora una puerta a la perdición.

A lo lejos veo el árbol. Un pino grueso y frondoso que indicaba la llegada del anochecer a aquellos que no caminaban fuera del templo. Justo con mi consciencia de él, veo mi sombra proyectada en sus ramas. El amanecer rompe con mis ojos. Me arden desde adentro. Mi boca sabe a ralladura de acueducto de cobre. No he tomado nada en días, pareciera.

De repente recuerdo que con el día, vienen ellos. Corro, en línea recta hacia al sol. La gran plaza gris, con sus personajes altos de mirada lenta y letárgica. La plaza negra con sus niños que me invitan a jugar desde ojos vidriosos. Entre la multitud de las plazas y sus gentes, encuentro máscaras que no deberían estar ahí. Esas mascaras blancas con finas líneas rojas, brillando al sol del amanecer. Son máscaras de lobo. Son ellos. Mi correr se torna en indecisión. Camino. Ellos se acercan. Olvido el camino. Camino hacia el templo. Camino hacia el olvido. Cada vez se acercan mas, con sus ojos detrás de las hendiduras de sus mascaras, mirándome. Me siento encerrado, como nada que conozca, el miedo me invade y el desespero. Ese olor a muerte. Las paredes de sus miradas me cercan. Exploto en movimiento. Corro hacia la pared mas cercana y como siempre salto hacia el techo. Solo que esta vez, no es como siempre. El bedel esta vacío, pero siento mi cuerpo pesado. De la pared no encuentro el techo ni su libertad escapista, sino el piso y la rotonda realidad de mascaras que me rodean.

Con la caída algo dentro de mi rompe. Y escupo sangre. Mi sangre dorada. La boca con su ralladura de cobre, invade mi cabeza del pesado olor a húmeda muerte. Mi garganta arde como si hubiese tragado brazas. Desde mis adentros surge un aullido en forma de lobo. Toso vena de pino mezcladas con sangre. En la confusión vomito la cabeza del lobo que aún moviéndose me engolfa en su mandíbula. Destrozada mi cara, veo a través de sus ojos dorados, no a mis captores, sino súbditos.

Soy el que trae la muerte y la vida. Soy el renacer de las fauces. Soy el dorado que quema. La húmeda y dorada muerte. El que calla y respira en frías noches y mañanas. En tardes como esta, soy el que era. Soy lo que nunca seré.

En tardes como esta, dejo de ser.

AG12

"If two points are destined to touch, the universe will always find a way to make the connection -..."

Wed, 06 Mar 2013 00:12:17 +0800

“If two points are destined to touch, the universe will always find a way to make the connection - even when all hope seems to be lost. Certain ties cannot be broken. They define who we are - and who we can become. Across space, across time, among paths we cannot predict - nature always finds a way”

- Touch (via fashionfever)