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alaspoorwallace · 2 years
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Pulp Fiction (1994)
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alaspoorwallace · 2 years
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Tren de sombras - Train of Shadows (1997)
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Pietro Della Vecchia (Italian, 1603-1678), Portrait of Erhard Weigel, 1649. Oil on canvas, 92.5 x 80.5. Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk
“Erhard Weigel (1625 – 1699) was a German mathematician, astronomer and philosopher. From 1653 until his death he was professor of mathematics at Jena University. He was the teacher of Leibniz (1663) and other notable students.” [en.wikipedia]  
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Lucian Freud (Berlin 1922 - London 2011); Two Plants, begun in 1977 and completed in 1980; oil on canvas, 120 x 150 cm; Tate, London
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Lu Song (Chinese, born 1982), Neon Garden II, 2017. Acrylic on canvas, 150 x 100 cm
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Alessandra Sanguinetti (American, born 1968) Pig, corn and hen. Buenos Aires, Argentina, 1997. © Alessandra Sanguinetti | Magnum Photos
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Do Ho Suh (born 1962, Seoul, Korea), from Specimen Series: Toilet, Apartment A, 348 West 22nd Street, New York, NY 10011, USA, 2013. Polyester fabric, private collection
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Michael Eastman (American, born 1947), Deco Stairwell, Havana, Cuba, 2010 | © Michael Eastman
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Cecil Beaton - Model Wearing a Dress by Ceil Chapman (Vogue 1950)
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Paul Cadmus (American, 1904-1999), Notturno Bologna [Bologna nocturne, detail and overall], 1957. Egg tempera on gesso panel, 29 x 40.5 cm
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Arthur Elgort (American, born 1940), Seconds to lift off [series], Vogue Russia, December 1999. Model: Natalia Semanova
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Alberto Burri (Italian, 1915-1995), Rosso plastica [plastic red], 1963. Plastic, acrylic and combustion on canvas, 60 x  52 cm
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Maria Schneider and Marlon Brando, Last Tango in Paris (1972) by Bernardo Bertolucci
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Edgar Degas (1834-1917), Woman wiping her Foot, 1886; pastel, 54 x 52 cm; Musée d’Orsay, Paris
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
Text
David Foster Wallace
YEAR OF THE DEPEND ADULT UNDERGARMENT
[...] [DFW, Infinite Jest, 14c]
Katherine Gompert seemed to come out of her dark reverie for a moment. She stared full-frontal at the doctor for several seconds, and the doctor, who'd had all discomfort at being stared at by patients trained right out of him when he'd rotated through the paralysis/-plegia wards upstairs, was able to look directly back at her with a kind of bland compassion, the expression of someone who was compassionate but was not, of course, feeling what she was feeling, and who honored her subjective feelings by not even trying to pretend that he was. Sharing them. The young woman's expression, in turn, revealed that she had decided to take what amounted for her to her own gamble, this early in a therapeutic relationship. The abstract resolve on her face now duplicated what had been on the doctor's face when he'd taken the gamble of asking her to sit up straight. 'Listen,' she said. 'Have you ever felt sick? I mean nauseous, like you knew you were going to throw up?’ The doctor made a gesture like Well sure. 'But that's just in your stomach,' Kate Gompert said. 'It's a horrible feeling but it's just in your stomach. That's why the term is "sick to your stomach." ' She was back to looking intently at her lower carpopedals. 'What I told Dr. Garton is OK but imagine if you felt that way all over, inside. All through you. Like every cell and every atom or brain-cell or whatever was so nauseous it wanted to throw up, but it couldn't, and you felt that way all the time, and you're sure, you're positive the feeling will never go away, you're going to spend the rest of your natural life feeling like this.’ The doctor wrote down something much too brief to correspond directly to what she'd said. He was nodding both while he wrote and when he looked up. 'And yet this nauseated feeling has come and gone for you in the past, it's passed eventually during prior depressions, Katherine, has it not?’ 'But when you're in the feeling you forget. The feeling feels like it's always been there and will always be there, and you forget. It's like this whole filter drops down over the whole way you think about everything, a couple weeks after —’ They sat and looked at each other. The doctor felt some combination of intense clinical excitement and anxiety about perhaps saying the wrong thing at such a crucial juncture and fouling up. His last name was needle-pointed in yellow braid on the left breast of the white coat he was required to wear. 'I'm sorry? A couple weeks after— ?’ He waited for seven breaths. 'I want shock,' she said finally. 'Isn't part of this whole concerned kindness deal that you're supposed to ask me how I think you can be of help? Cause I've been through this before. You haven't asked what I want. Isn't it? Well how about either give me ECT [29] again, or give me my belt back. Because I can't stand feeling like this another second, and the seconds keep coming on and on.’ 'Well,' the doctor said slowly, nodding to indicate he had heard the feelings the young woman was expressing, 'Well, I'm happy to discuss treatment options with you, Katherine. But I have to say right now I'm curious about what you started it sounded like to me to maybe start to indicate what might have occurred, something, two weeks ago to make you feel these feelings now. Would you be comfortable talking to me about it?’ 'Either ECT or you could just sedate me for a month. You could do that. All I'd need is I think a month at the outside. Like a controlled coma. You could do that, if you guys want to help.’ The doctor gazed at her with a patience she was meant to see. And she gave him back a frightening smile, a smile empty of all affect, as if someone had contracted her circumorals with a thigmotactic electrode. The teeth of the smile evidenced a clinical depressive's classic inattention to oral hygiene. She said 'I was thinking I was about to say you'll think I'm crazy if I tell you. But then I remembered where I am.' She made a small sound that was supposed to be laughter; it did sound jagged, dentate. 'I was going to say I've thought sometimes before like the feeling maybe had to do with Hope.’ 'Hope.’ Her arms had been crossed over her breasts the whole time, and though the room was overheated the patient rubbed each palm continually over her upper arms, behavior one associates with chill. The position and movement shielded her inner arms from view. The doctor's eyebrows had gone synclinal from puzzlement without his awareness. 'Bob.’ 'Bob.' The doctor was anxious that his failure to have any idea what the girl was referring to would betray itself and accentuate her feelings of loneliness and psychic pain. Classic unipolars were usually tormented by the conviction that no one else could hear or understand them when they tried to communicate. Hence jokes, sarcasm, the psychopathology of unconscious arm-rubbing. Kate Gompert's head was rolling like a blind person's. 'Jesus what am I doing here. Bob Hope. Dope. Sinse. Stick. Grass. Smoke.' She made a quick duBois-gesture with thumb and finger held to rounded lips. The dealers down where I buy it some of them make you call it Bob Hope when you call, in case anybody's accessed the line. You're supposed to ask is Bob in town. And if they have some they say "Hope springs eternal," usually. It's like a code. One kid makes you ask him to please commit a crime. The dealers that stay around any length of time tend to be on the paranoid side. As if it would fool anybody who knew enough to bother to access the band on the call.' She seemed decidedly more animated. 'And one particular guy with snakes in a tank in a trailer in Allston, he —’ 'So drugs, then, you're saying you feel may be a factor,' the doctor interrupted. The depressed young woman's face emptied once more. She engaged briefly in something the staffers on Specials called the Thousand-Meter Stare. 'Not "drugs," ' she said slowly. The doctor smelled shame in the room, sour and uremic. Her face had become distantly pained now. The girl said: 'Stopping.’ The doctor felt comfortable saying once again that he was not sure he understood what she was trying to share with him. She now went through a series of expressions that made it clinically impossible for the doctor to determine whether or not she was entirely sincere. She looked either pained or trying somehow to suppress hilarity. She said 'I don't know if you'll believe me. I'm worried you'll think I'm crazy. I have this thing with pot.’ 'Meaning marijuana.’
[...] [DFW, Infinite Jest, 14d]
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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Bartholomæus Hopfer (German, 1628-1699), Exilium Melancholiae, after 1643. Oil on canvas, 
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alaspoorwallace · 4 years
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