bofransson:

Reflections in a Mirror on the Mantle Piece
Edouard Vuillard - circa 1930-1935

bofransson:

Reflections in a Mirror on the Mantle Piece

Edouard Vuillard - circa 1930-1935

chloefrancillon:

Pablo Picasso — Sylvette Davis — 1954 —

chloefrancillon:

Pablo Picasso — Sylvette Davis — 1954 —

bofransson:

Järnefelt, Eero
Cloud Study, 1893

bofransson:

Järnefelt, Eero

Cloud Study, 1893

bofransson:

Woman with Jewelry Kees Van Dongen - 1929

bofransson:

Woman with Jewelry Kees Van Dongen - 1929

“I exist as I am, that is enough, if no other in the world be aware I sit content, and if each and all be aware I sit content”
Walt Whitman (via throughthewildblue)
colin-vian:

  Amedeo Modigliani - Donna bionda (ritratto di Germaine Survage), 1918.

colin-vian:

  Amedeo Modigliani - Donna bionda (ritratto di Germaine Survage), 1918.

bofransson:

Naked Woman Entering the Water Pierre Auguste Renoir - circa 1916

bofransson:

Naked Woman Entering the Water Pierre Auguste Renoir - circa 1916

bofransson:

Reclining Model
Henri Matisse - 1919

bofransson:

Reclining Model

Henri Matisse - 1919

bofransson:

Odalisque with a Tambourine
Henri Matisse - 1925-1926

bofransson:

Odalisque with a Tambourine

Henri Matisse - 1925-1926

bofransson:

Dark Dahlias
Emil Nolde

bofransson:

Dark Dahlias

Emil Nolde

l-art-peut-ressusciter-la-vie:

treebystream:

letter from Eugene Delacroix to his paint dealer

Grâce à toi Eugène Delacroix

l-art-peut-ressusciter-la-vie:

treebystream:

letter from Eugene Delacroix to his paint dealer

Grâce à toi Eugène Delacroix

bofransson:

Cup, Glass and Fruit 
Paul Cezanne - circa 1877

bofransson:

Cup, Glass and Fruit 

Paul Cezanne - circa 1877

theparisreview:

INTERVIEWER
In 1912, you were in New York.  
CENDRARS
In 1912, at Easter, I was starving in New York, and had been for a number of months. From time to time I took a job, by force of necessity, but I didn’t keep it a week and if I could manage to get my pay sooner than that I quit sooner, impatient to get on with my sessions of reading at the central public library. My poverty was extreme and every day I looked worse: unshaven, trousers in corkscrews, shoes worn out, hair long, coat stained and faded and without buttons, no hat or tie, having sold them one day for a penny in order to buy a plug of the world’s worst chewing tobacco. Time passed. Came Easter. Easter Sunday the library was closed. In the evening I entered a Presbyterian church which was giving an oratorio, Haydn’s Creation, so said a lighted sign hung to the spire. In the church there was a scattered audience and, on a stage, fashionable young girls who played ancient instruments and sang divinely well. But a wretched bishop interrupted the oratorio every five minutes to preach I-know-not-what pious sanctimony and make an appeal to the good hearts of the faithful and, when the oratorio continued, another croaker of a preacher as tiresome as the first entered the stall where I had taken a place, and tried to convert me by surreptitious exhortation, all the time thumping my money pocket in an effort to draw out a dollar or two for expenses, shaking his leather money plate under my nose. Poor me! I left before the end and walked home to West Sixty-seventh Street where I was living, absolutely disgusted and dead beat. It could have been two or three o’clock in the morning. I gnawed a hunk of dry bread and drank a big glass of water. I went to bed. I went immediately to sleep. I woke up with a start. I began to write, to write. I went back to sleep. I woke up the second time with a start. I wrote until dawn and I went back to bed and back to sleep for good. I woke up at five o’clock that evening. I reread the thing. I had written Les Pâques à New-York.  
INTERVIEWER
The whole thing?  
CENDRARS
As it was published. There were three erasures.  
From the Art of Fiction No. 38 with Blaise Cendrars.

theparisreview:

INTERVIEWER

In 1912, you were in New York.  

CENDRARS

In 1912, at Easter, I was starving in New York, and had been for a number of months. From time to time I took a job, by force of necessity, but I didn’t keep it a week and if I could manage to get my pay sooner than that I quit sooner, impatient to get on with my sessions of reading at the central public library. My poverty was extreme and every day I looked worse: unshaven, trousers in corkscrews, shoes worn out, hair long, coat stained and faded and without buttons, no hat or tie, having sold them one day for a penny in order to buy a plug of the world’s worst chewing tobacco. Time passed. Came Easter. Easter Sunday the library was closed. In the evening I entered a Presbyterian church which was giving an oratorio, Haydn’s Creation, so said a lighted sign hung to the spire. In the church there was a scattered audience and, on a stage, fashionable young girls who played ancient instruments and sang divinely well. But a wretched bishop interrupted the oratorio every five minutes to preach I-know-not-what pious sanctimony and make an appeal to the good hearts of the faithful and, when the oratorio continued, another croaker of a preacher as tiresome as the first entered the stall where I had taken a place, and tried to convert me by surreptitious exhortation, all the time thumping my money pocket in an effort to draw out a dollar or two for expenses, shaking his leather money plate under my nose. Poor me! I left before the end and walked home to West Sixty-seventh Street where I was living, absolutely disgusted and dead beat. It could have been two or three o’clock in the morning. I gnawed a hunk of dry bread and drank a big glass of water. I went to bed. I went immediately to sleep. I woke up with a start. I began to write, to write. I went back to sleep. I woke up the second time with a start. I wrote until dawn and I went back to bed and back to sleep for good. I woke up at five o’clock that evening. I reread the thing. I had written Les Pâques à New-York.  

INTERVIEWER

The whole thing?  

CENDRARS

As it was published. There were three erasures.  

From the Art of Fiction No. 38 with Blaise Cendrars.

fleurdulys:

The Muse Inspiring the Poet - Henri Rousseau
1909

fleurdulys:

The Muse Inspiring the Poet - Henri Rousseau

1909

loverofbeauty:

Maira Kalman

loverofbeauty:

Maira Kalman

(Source: twelveplusways)