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(werenotbroken.com)
(werenotbroken.com)
(werenotbroken.com)

(werenotbroken.com)

neetoday:

née today: Louise Dahl-Wolfe
birth info: 19 November 1895 - 11 December 1989

“Photography, to my mind, is not a fine art. It is splendid for recording a period of time, but it has definite limitations, and the photographer certainly hasn’t the freedom of the painter. One can work with taste and emotion and create an exciting arrangement of significant form, a meaningful photograph, but a painter has the advantage of putting something in the picture that isn’t there or taking something out that is there. I think this makes painting a more creative medium.”

(werenotbroken.com)

one of my favorite poems by marianne moore
neetoday:

née today: Marianne Moorebirth info: 15 November 1887 - 5 February 1972
The Paper Nautilus
For authorities whose hopesare shaped by mercenaries?Writers entrapped byteatime fame and bycommuters’ comforts? Not for thesethe paper nautilusconstructs her thin glass shell.Giving her perishablesouvenir of hope, a dullwhite outside and smooth-edged inner surfaceglossy as the sea, the watchfulmaker of it guards itday and night; she scarcelyeats until the eggs are hatched.Buried eight-fold in her eightarms, for she is ina sense a devil-fish, her glass ram’shorn-cradled freightis hid but is not crushed;as Hercules, bittenby a crab loyal to the hydra,was hindered to succeed,the intensivelywatched eggs coming fromthe shell free it when they are freed,—leaving its wasp-nest flawsof white on white, and close-laid Ionic chiton-foldslike the lines in the mane ofa Parthenon horse,round which the arms hadwound themselves as if they knew loveis the only fortressstrong enough to trust to.

one of my favorite poems by marianne moore

neetoday:

née today: Marianne Moore
birth info: 15 November 1887 - 5 February 1972

The Paper Nautilus

For authorities whose hopes
are shaped by mercenaries?
Writers entrapped by
teatime fame and by
commuters’ comforts? Not for these
the paper nautilus
constructs her thin glass shell.

Giving her perishable
souvenir of hope, a dull
white outside and smooth-
edged inner surface
glossy as the sea, the watchful
maker of it guards it
day and night; she scarcely

eats until the eggs are hatched.
Buried eight-fold in her eight
arms, for she is in
a sense a devil-
fish, her glass ram’shorn-cradled freight
is hid but is not crushed;
as Hercules, bitten

by a crab loyal to the hydra,
was hindered to succeed,
the intensively
watched eggs coming from
the shell free it when they are freed,—
leaving its wasp-nest flaws
of white on white, and close-

laid Ionic chiton-folds
like the lines in the mane of
a Parthenon horse,
round which the arms had
wound themselves as if they knew love
is the only fortress
strong enough to trust to.

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]