I feel the same about lipstick. I feel that I look like a clown.
I like them because I don’t like the natural colour of my lips. But I’m starting to realise I prefer softer colours, tones that are close to my skin colour. The dark stuff just adds too much contrast. Maybe I just like looking bland. Or like me but just slightly better. I don’t know how people can feel comfortable painting on a whole face. It scares me to look in the mirror and not recognise myself. But maybe that’s the point.
Have you tried shimmery ones that almost match the tone of your skin? Because I hate eye shadow on myself too so when I want to wear it I wear shades of gold/brown that match my skin but are really shimmery.
Actually now that you mention it yes. I have some shades of bronze and gold that I actually DO like because they match my skin colour but just add that oomph of shimmer. It’s the only eyeshadow I wear that doesn’t make me look like a clown. Cause that’s what I feel like when I see any other colour on my lids. A clown.
I love makeup. I love experimenting with makeup. I’ve worked as a makeup artist. But for some reason whenever I take out my eyeshadows and do my own eyes I always end up wiping almost everything off but the eyeliner and mascara. I just hate how my eyes look when they’re “done”. Honestly I think I look ugly. I’ve had professionals apply my makeup too. Same result. Hate it. It really sucks cause I really like eyeshadow. But for some reason it doesn’t seem to agree with the aesthetics of my face. It’s really weird.
I made another one. Smaller and more aesthetically pleasing, smaller gauge wire which doesn’t seem to matter much, and a hammered texture which I absolutely do not like. I’ll be dismantling this one bleh.
I made this necklace with a spinning crystal. It needs some adjustments (the arc needs to be shorter for starters) and I might use thinner wire and experiment with the texture who knows. But I like it.
I’m steups. Every time I see you write it, I read it as “step-ups,” and then I wonder what step-ups means and how it fits into context with what you said. Then I realize it’s “steups” and short for “stupid” and feel like an idiot. Every. Time.
Lol no it’s not short for stupid. It’s a sound that we make that conveys disgust or that we think something is ridiculous.
Woke up this morning to see that North and South Korea may have started themselves a war. This is just too much to deal with at 5:44am. I’m going back to bed.
I don’t know why all of a sudden this picture I posted three years ago on Facebook is getting all this attention today but I thought I’d share it with y’all. This is me in Washington D.C. in the summer of 1977. I watched Elvis’ funeral on television that summer while eating a box of animal crackers, wondering who he was. I spent the summer chasing squirrels all over the nation’s capital to the delight of strangers everywhere. I got lost in The Smithsonian and stayed put near the exhibition of the giant whale mounted on the ceiling and waited until my mother found me. I didn’t panic. I spent two weeks walking through New York City silently hoping that the next corner we turned would lead us to Sesame Street, and eventually giving up my quest in disappointment when I could not catch a glimpse of the familiar brownstone steps. Later that summer our parents would take me and my brother to the local drive in movie theater where I would watch a little movie called Star Wars and excitedly think that the tiny holographic image of Princess Leia meant she was a fairy, making me a lifelong fan of the series. In the summer of 1977 I was four years old.
I was drooling over a bunch of gemstones and now I just dropped a ton of money. I cannot get enough.
This is the bad part of making jewelry. It’s not like painting where if you don’t have a certain color you can improvise. If you want to create something with jewelry you have to have the raw material.
In first grade, a boy named John— a notorious troublemaker—systematically chased every girl in our class during recess trying to kiss her on the lips. Most gave in eventually. It was easier to give in than keep running. When it was my turn, I turned and faced him, grabbed his glasses off his weasel face, and stomped on them on the hard blacktop. He ran to the principal’s office and cried.
In fifth grade, I was asked to be a boy’s girlfriend over email. It was the first email I ever received. He actually told me he wanted to send me an email, so I went home and made an AOL account. We went to a carnival and he won me a Garfield stuffed animal, and then he gave me a 3 Doors Down CD. A few days later, he broke up with me, and asked for Garfield and the CD back. I said no.
In sixth grade, a girl in my year gave head to an eighth grader in the back of the school bus while playing Truth or Dare.
In the summer after sixth grade, I kissed a boy for the first time at sleep away camp. He was my summer love. During the end-of-the-summer dining hall announcements, where kids usually announced lost sweatshirts and Walkmen, an older girl stepped up to the microphone, tossed her hair behind her shoulders, and proudly stated, “I lost something very precious to me last night. My virginity. If anyone finds it, please let me know.” The dining hall erupted into laughter and cheers. She was barred from ever coming back to the camp again, and wasn’t allowed to say goodbye to anyone.
In seventh grade, I told my brother I decided when I was older wanted a Hummer. What I really meant was I wanted a Jeep, but I didn’t know a lot about cars. My mother overheard and screamed at me for “wanting a Hummer.”
In the summer after freshman year of high school, I went to sleepaway field hockey camp with many of my close friends. One of them, named Megan, I had been friends with since kindergarten. One night when I was showering, she ripped open the curtain and snapped a photo of me on her disposable camera. I screamed. She laughed. We both laughed when I got out of the shower a few minutes later. After camp was over, her father took the camera to the convenience store to get it developed. When he gave the finished photos back to her, he said, “Your friend [Anonymous] has grown up.”
Sophomore year of high school, one of my best friends Hilary had a party in her basement while her mom was away. We invited some of the guys in our grade and someone’s older brother bought us a handle of vodka. One of the boys who came sat next to me in Spanish class. His name was Thomas. I remember playing a simple game, where we passed the bottle of vodka around in a circle and drank. I remember being happily tipsy and having fun, to suddenly being very drunk. Thomas and I started chanting numbers in Spanish, and he leaned towards me and kissed me. We kissed in the middle of the party, with all of our friends cheering. Then we went into Hilary’s bedroom.
Hilary’s bedroom was in the basement, on the ground floor, with a large window next to her bed. When someone went outside to smoke a cigarette, they realized it was a front row seat to what was happening in the bedroom. It was dark outside, and the light on was in the bedroom. They called everyone outside to watch. I don’t remember getting undressed, but apparently we were both completely naked in Hilary’s bed. A friend of mine told me later she tried to open the door and stop what was happening, but Thomas must have locked it. They said they pounded on the door. I don’t remember hearing them pounding. I don’t remember seeing everyone’s faces outside the window. I remember Thomas holding my head down, and shoving his penis into my mouth. I remember trying to resist, pulling back, but he held his hands firmly on my head, pushing my face up and down. That’s all that I remember.
The next day, my friends and I went out to dinner at one of our favorite local restaurants. I couldn’t eat anything, and it wasn’t because I was hung over. Every time I tried to put food in my mouth, I felt like I was choking. Anytime a flash of the night before appeared in my mind, I felt like vomiting. My friends sat with me in silence. Then they told me a girl named Lindsey, who had briefly dated Thomas freshman year, had stood outside and watched the entire time. Even after everyone else stopped watching. My friends said they didn’t watch.
On Monday, Thomas and I sat next to each other in Spanish. We didn’t speak. We didn’t make eye contact. I went to the girls bathroom and threw up. I hear Lindsey and Thomas live together, now, ten years later.
Junior year of high school, my teacher for Honors Spanish was named Señor Gonzales. Señor Gonzales had all of the girls sit in the front row. Señor Gonzales called on any girl who was wearing a skirt to write on the chalkboard. Señor Gonzales asked a friend of mine, who had broken her finger playing an after school sport, if she broke her finger because “she liked it rough.” Señor Gonzales was a tenured teacher.
Senior year of high school, I got my first real boyfriend. His name was Colin. He was on the lacrosse team with Thomas. He told me that sophomore year, Thomas told everyone on the team what happened that night at Hilary’s. Everyone cheered. Colin said that, even then, he had a crush on me. Even then, he wanted to punch Thomas.
Colin and I lost our virginities to each other. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have the baby. He didn’t believe in abortion. Colin said if I got pregnant, he would make me have a C-section. Colin said that if I didn’t have a C-section, my vagina would be too loose for him to ever enjoy having sex with me again. Colin said that he wouldn’t let our child breastfeed. He said his mother gave him formula, and that he turned out just fine. I didn’t get pregnant.
Junior year of college, I lived in Denmark for the spring semester and studied at the University of Copenhagen. Copenhagen is one of the safest cities in the world. Guns are illegal there. Pepper spray is illegal there. One night, my friends and I went to a concert at a crowded club in a part of the city I didn’t know very well. I brought a tiny purse with money, my apartment key, and my international cell phone. For some reason it made sense at the time to put my purse inside my friend’s purse. Maybe I didn’t feel like carrying it. We were both drinking. My friend left the concert to go home with her boyfriend. One by one, everyone I was there with left the concert, until I was suddenly alone and I realized I didn’t have my purse, or any money for a cab ride home.
I started walking in the direction that felt right. I walked for a long time. I had no idea where I was, and didn’t recognize the area. It was almost 4 am. I was on a residential street when a cab pulled up next to me. I asked the driver if he could drive me to an intersection down the street from my apartment.
I don’t have any money, I said.
I really need your help, I said.
I will do it for free, he said.
Sit in the front, he said.
I sat in the front. We drove in silence for some time, until he pulled over on the side of a dark street.
I don’t want to do it for free anymore, he said.
He locked the car doors and reached across the center console and slipped his hand up my skirt. He grabbed my vagina. Hard. I pushed his hand away and unlocked the door. I ran down the street and realized he had taken me a block away from the intersection I wanted. I walked to my apartment and threw rocks at my roommate’s window until she let me inside. She yelled at me for waking her up. I escaped. Nothing happened. I was fine.
The summer after I graduated college I helped Hilary find an internship. She was an art major and wanted something for her resume besides waitressing. We found a posting on Craigslist to be a studio assistant for a painter in the Bronx. It was listed as an unpaid internship. The toll for the George Washington Bridge was twelve dollars, plus gas, but she got the internship anyway. She wanted the experience.
The artist was a 38-year-old Canadian painter named Bradley. Hilary was 22.There was another intern there, an art student from Manhattan named Stella. Bradley needed assistants to help him make bubble wrap paintings. Stella and Hilary would take a syringe and fill the tiny bubbles with different color paints until it formed a mosaic. Bradley always had Hilary stay after Stella left to clean the paintbrushes and syringes. He told Hilary she was beautiful. More beautiful than his wife, who he only married for citizenship. He told Hilary they had a loveless marriage. He told Hilary he wanted to have her beautiful children. They began an affair. He told Hilary has wife knew and didn’t care. He told Hilary he was going to leave his wife soon.
Everyday Hilary drove to the Bronx, cleaned Bradley’s paintbrushes, and had sex on the studio floor. Everyday she went home with no money, and everyday she paid the toll at the George Washington Bridge. She needed the internship for her resume, she said. It was too late to find a new job, she said.
I could go on. I could tell you a lot more. About the whistles on the sidewalk, the kids who sat at the bottom of the stairs in high school to look up our skirts, my friend who was a prostitute in South Carolina, the men who’ve cornered me in parking lots and bars calling me a tease, the unwanted grabbing on the subway, the many times my father has called me fat, the time I traveled to the Philippines and discovered Western men pay preteen locals to spend the week in their hotel, the messages on OKCupid asking to “fart in my mouth.” About how I wasn’t sure if I had been raped because I was drunk and kissed Thomas back. How he raped my mouth and not my vagina, so that must not be rape. How easy it was for me to escape the dark street in Copenhagen, and how that made it not matter since “it could’ve been worse.”
Men have no idea what it takes to be a woman. To grin and bear it and persevere. The constant state of war, navigating the relentless obstacle course of testosterone and misogyny, where they think we are property to be owned and plowed. But we’re not. We are people, just like them. Equals, in fact, or at least that’s the core of what feminism is still trying to achieve. The job is not over. We’ve made great progress. There are female CEOs, though not very many. There are females writing for the New York Times and winning Pulitzer prizes, though not very many. There are female politicians, though not very many. But these advances are only on paper. The job won’t be over until equality permeates the air we breathe, the streets we walk and the homes we live in.
I think back to how easy it was for me, in first grade, to feel fearless and strong in my conviction to stomp on John’s glasses. I felt right in reacting how I did, because John’s behavior was wrong. But his was an elementary learning of the wide boundaries his gender would go on to afford him. For me, it would never again be so easy.
What was so bad about Stephanie’s outfit that she was being punished for it? Her exposed collarbone. Her mother was called to the school but even after giving her daughter a scarf, the outfit was still deemed inappropriate.
It’s been really rainy today. We have some sort of weather system moving through the region. Right now it’s 77 degrees and drippy and there are clouds covering the hills. All the birds are calling out loudly to each other after the rain. The sky is completely white. It’s nice.
The whole “we are number one!” thing has always baffled me, as a Canadian. Like you say, it’s just not true in many ways. But I dunno, I guess they are all hopped up on Freedom ;-).
God don’t even let me get started on that whole freedom thing
Left pair have no brass beads, right pair have tiny faceted brass beads. Thought they would make a big difference but it doesn’t look so. Maybe I should try coloured beads… #jewelry #sundarajewelry #quartz #crystal #bronze #earrings #experiments
The recipe Chris used called for wine and it basically overwhelmed the taste of everything. The lamb didn’t even taste like lamb, just some nondescript slightly bitterish meat.
I had some today with some rice and it tasted a lot better. I added copious amounts of salt.
I didn’t know you could fuck up lamb. Consider me schooled. Next time we’re using a different recipe. No wine. Blech.
That video going around from The Newsroom where Will says exactly why America isn’t the greatest country says it best.
I know the one you’re talking about.
I sometimes feel that for Americans it’s like part of their self esteem. Because you all have been bred with the idea that you must be the best. So it’s offensive to you all, the idea that you are not. It’s just my external take on it what do I know. I come from a country that I think is overly negative and critical of itself.
You ARE salty today! No, I have lots of US friends.
hahahaha! So do I! I went to an American high school and I went to college in the States. The majority of my nearest and dearest are actually American. It’s a country I love greatly. And I cannot say that I have been personally touched by that attitude either. But I have seen a lot of it here on tumblr and it annoys me to no end.
And the fact that by nearly any positive metric America is so far from “best” it’s laughable.
That’s just it. There are measures of “greatness”, like actual palpable scales on which America can be measured against other countries and they are behind almost every other developed country on the planet.
As a Canadian, I agree with you. It’s a level of Patriotism that feels obnoxious, however it’s my observation that its a collective patriotism that for some odd reason, does not translate to individuals as strongly.
Yes I agree with you on that. It doesn’t translate to individuals in the same way. Of course not. Because none of us would ever speak to anyone who was American, or have friends who were Americans. It’s an intolerable attitude and just a massive turnoff in my opinion.
We’re indoctrinated at a young age. I think it’s even worse now, post 9/11. The stuff my kid learns at school kinda grosses me out. I try to remind her that there are actually lots of great countries, and some have better stuff going for them.
The propaganda is a big part of the problem but that has been going on for generations. As I see it the educational system is brainwashing the population (I had that same education too by the way). It requires critical thought to snap out of that mindset. HOWEVER, we live in the information age. And all of the information is right there at our fingertips. It’s impossible to ignore. I don’t even live there and it’s in my face every single day. I know more about what is happening in your country than I do my own. In the face of all this I cannot understand how people can insist it’s the best country in the world. Well aside from impervious nationalism, I suppose. Some people just don’t want to know anything outside of what they believe. It’s just… I’ve never seen a population with that kind of collective blindness. All countries believe they are great in their own way. But everyone else seems to have a balanced and critical outlook. Many Americans simply do not. It boggles the mind.
Because so many Americans never actually leave the country and see what else is out there.
I’ve never been to Scandinavia but I know that in terms of social services for their citizens they’re the most progressive region in the world. The information is out there. So if people want to learn how America really measures up all they have to do is look for it. I think people just want to remain wilfully ignorant and continue to believe that they’re the best at everything even when it’s abundantly clear that they’re not.
Everybody wants to feel proud of their country, but why must Americans insist they are literally the best country on earth?
I mean that’s a really broad categorisation. And I’d venture to say that depending on who you are in America, for a lot of people that statement isn’t anything close to true.
I just don’t get why it’s always a fucking competition with everybody else. We all feel proud of our countries. But this “the best country in the world” idea? Naw man. C’mon. Take a good look. You excel at a lot of things and a lot of them are shitty. It’s annoying. And on behalf of the rest of us let me tell you something: we love it when y’all lose.
Yeah, same here! They keep/publish stats here regarding “affordability” of housing – and it really is not affordable. Maybe they publish stats like that there too? It sounds like a lot of people are on the same boat as you, though.
I don’t know if they have stats because I’ve never been in the market for a house. But most people I know who own their own homes at my age have either been fortunate enough to have received government housing or they have had help from their parents.
I think that all the time about real estate here, too (i.e., who has the money??). Our three bedroom (unrenovated) townhouse that was built in 1979 cost 400K – 8 years ago. And that was considered a steal.
Maybe because I never made much money when I was working for the man and make even less now I have no concept of what people are actually earning? I don’t know. But I don’t think I’m that far off, and even with two good incomes you’d have to be up to your ears in debt to afford the housing here. But they don’t seem to want to cater to the middle class. So people like me move out of our parents’ homes and move into a different economic class because we can’t afford to live in the neighbourhoods where we grew up.
I think developers build to maximize the returns on their investment. If they can’t sell the expensive properties, they will start to develop more for the middle class. I think supply and demand plays a big part in everything
Well the thing is how the properties are valued. Much of the housing that is priced above middle class housing prices is what would have passed for middle class housing before in terms of quality, location etc. But I would say in the past ten to fifteen years the cost of housing has skyrocketed. And because there is no sort of regulation, people charge whatever they want. The prices are totally over inflated. There’s definitely a shortage of housing in Port of Spain and environs. But outside of those areas I really have no understanding how in the remote countryside and villages people are selling houses that cost half a million US dollars. I keep wondering who their market is. Everyone keeps saying that the real estate bubble is going to bust but it isn’t happening.
I’ll assume the influx of money from people paying for these homes is good for the economy or good for someone’s pockets. In NYC they’re building US 50 million dollar condos being bought by foreign investors.
But foreigners only invest in housing in the capital because that’s where all the business is. Or in Tobago where the tourism is. But some of these houses are in places where there’s nothing happening. That’s what baffles me.
There was a time when many people bought property in Port of Spain to rent out to the expat market. But due to the financial crisis, a lot of the expats are no longer here. But there’s a lot of people with a lot of money who are ok with sitting on properties that aren’t earning them money, rather than selling them. There’s a lot of money in this country, we have highest GDP per capita in Latin America and the Caribbean. It’s just that these kinds of prices are out of reach for the middle class. And all the housing I keep seeing built is luxury housing. And a lot of it is remaining empty. It doesn’t make sense.
Well you know they’re building a new Chinese Embassy on Long Circular opposite the Country Club right? I’ve heard that the embassy wants to buy up the townhouses as housing for staff. Although to be honest with you, it’s really not customary for embassies to purchase housing, they usually rent. So that might just be talk.
It’s totally normal for a house anywhere in the country to be listed at US$300,000. For a starter home. Half a million US$ is totally normal these days.
They developed the large lot opposite my mom’s house and built a bunch of ugly ass townhouses there, all squished up together.
They’re selling for a starting price of US$1.1 million. For a fucking three bedroom townhouse.
I don’t know who the fuck has that kind of money. It’s not like people EARN US$ here. Those that do are expats so they’re not investing in property here. Sure there are people with money to invest but who would they rent it out to? I can only imagine the cost.
This is why the government keeps having to build subsidised housing. And that in itself is at least a ten year wait. It’s just ridiculous. There’s no affordable housing for the middle class. I have no idea how poor people live.
Akosua Adoma Owusu is a filmmaker based between New York and Ghana. Her
films, which have mostly been produced in Ghana, reflect a lot of her
own experiences as a Ghanaian and an American. She speaks to us about
her work and her latest film, Black Sunshine.
“Black Sunshine is my forthcoming feature about identity and wanting love
or acceptance in general. It’s about a dark-skinned Ghanaian
hairdresser who feels her skin color is a hindrance and she seeks love
through skin lightening products. On the other hand, her young albino
daughter, Coco, who has her own identity issues, doesn’t look like the
average African. Her mother’s skin somehow reminds her of what she
wants. In Black Sunshine I am interested in how African women try to
achieve a distorted version of whiteness from skin lightening products,
while Africans with albinism are killed and hunted for ritual purposes.
I found this desire for “whiteness” on a continent that has been
racially constructed as the “heart of darkness” as great material for a
fictional narrative…”
I saw that they’re casting for a new movie about Cleopatra.
I just rolled my eyes.
I know they are going to cast her as White.
So fuck you and fuck your movie we’re boycotting it and it’s going to bomb just like all your other whitewashed revisionist bullshit has done and will keep doing until you start representing minorities and our contributions to the entire fucking world.
I have a deep scar on my butt/hip from a dog. My whole life, people have always said “at least you didn’t get bitten on your face.” I always resented that a bit, but this post has helped my perspective!
Yeah girl count your blessings. I can’t hide these scars even with makeup
There’s a new mama bird in the nest. She’s only got one egg. She flew away when I stepped out on the porch today so I took a peek.
I’m amazed at the constant flow of birds through that one nest. I never knew birds did that. As soon as one mama and her babies leave it seems another has occupied it.
It seems to have been made largely of mud as it’s hard. I guess that’s how they can keep reusing it. I wonder if they communicate about it or if each subsequent bird just finds it?
The location is perfect. In a planter above the ground out of reach from predators. In the shade. Exposure to the outdoors but not actually outdoor. Situated right next to a large fruit tree. And we’re rarely ever out there. Perfect.
When I was five years old I was mauled by a neighbour’s Doberman on my face and neck (I’ve mentioned this before). As expected it left me with permanent scars.
The most prominent is the one on my forehead but it really doesn’t bother me unless it itches (yes it still itches after 37 years). The ones that bug me are the ones on my cheeks where the puncture wounds were sewn up. When I see pictures of women with smooth skin I’m always secretly, somewhere in the back of my mind, a little envious, because I know my face doesn’t look like that and never will.
It’s not that I’m conscious of it. But when I put on makeup they’re still visible to me. Plus I have bad allergies that make me break out in a rash on my face so it just compounds it. So I really envy people who just naturally have clear skin. I’m never going to have a smooth complexion.
I know it’s not really a big deal. In spite of what happened I healed up miraculously well considering how bad the damage was. I wasn’t disfigured, I didn’t need reconstructive surgery, and I am alive which is amazing considering that I came thisclose to losing my life. I also somehow never developed a fear of dogs although of course I am nervous around that breed. So all in all I did really well. I guess I’m just saying if you don’t have to think about what your skin looks like then you’re really lucky. I don’t take good face days for granted ever.
Oh this was so much fun to see. I’m amazed at how much work goes into each piece.
Yes it’s a lot of small but necessary steps. At least necessary for me for the finish I want. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I love seeing people’s creative process myself. I don’t see enough of these online.
These kids are decrying the Confederate flag in the best way ever: by telling us all the horrible stuff it represents. In a video posted to YouTube Tuesday, a group of young boys and girls get together to express how fed up they are “with this whitewashing of America’s dark past.”
I really enjoy the process of making jewellery as much as I love the finished product. I’m generally a purist, in that I make everything from scratch. But it can be very time consuming so sometimes it makes sense to buy components.
In this case I had purchased some brass blanks in various shapes. They’re extremely lightweight unlike the heavy jeweller’s bronze I usually use and so they’re really good for jewellery, especially earrings where weight is a factor.
I started off with two circles and cut them in half with my metal shears and marked out the areas I wanted to drill with a magic marker.
The next step is to use a metal punch and my heavy brass hammer to make an indentation in the metal. That way when it comes time to drill the bit has somewhere to rest and doesn’t go skating all over the metal and causing scratches.
The pieces are now punched. I decided to stamp them with a pattern to add interest.
I’m pretty happy with this pattern. I don’t need it to be perfect, I like my pieces to look handmade versus machine made. Now it’s time for me to drill the holes.
So this isn’t a great picture but as you can see the back of the pieces have sharp metal protrusions. I used to file these down but I learnt an cool trick from someone else’s tutorial. Basically, you take a much larger drill bit and use it to smooth out the backs of the holes. It gives them a really professional looking finish.
See? Now the backs are nicely recessed and there’s no metal to catch on anyone’s hair or clothes.
I used a rubber polishing wheel to smooth out the edges where I cut the discs. The rubber has an abrasive in it so while it grinds it also polishes. These are a great tool.
Next I polished them using my rotary tool and a round metal brush to make them shiny. Then I blackened the pattern for contrast.
I had just gotten these heishi beads (heishi refers to the shape… round beads with flat edges) in blue and white turquoise. I was really excited to use them as I’ve had this design in my mind, in various incarnations, for a really long time.
I’ve made several similar pieces like this but I had a few problems with this one. Next time I won’t attach the bottom piece until the end. Working with the loose chains made it a lot easier and also gave me more freedom when it came to deciding on a pattern.
And here they are, the finished pieces. They took me a lot longer than I expected but with every new piece there’s always a learning curve. The second time always goes a lot faster (if there is a second time, I don’t often repeat pieces). Tomorrow I’ll get starting on a matching necklace.
Provenance: English engineer, late 1930s–ca. 1969; [Walter Randel Gallery, New York, ca.1969]; Alice K. Bache, New York, 1969–1977 (partial gift from 1974)
Metallurgy was the primary medium for the expression of the power of Sicán rulers; vessels, headdresses, body adornments, funerary masks, and tumis were delicately made with gold, silver, and arsenical copper.
Tumis are ceremonial knives with semicircular blades. Known on the Peruvian coast since the third century B.C.E., they often appear in Moche iconography, where they are used to cut the throat of sacrificial victims.
Tumis were also recently found in situ in the tombs of high-status Moche and Sicán individuals. Sicán tumis such as this one were exquisitely crafted by skilled metallurgists mastering the techniques of repoussé, soldering, and filigree.
Here, the handle is inlaid with turquoise and takes the shape of the Sicán Lord with characteristic crescent headdress, comma-shaped eyes, and pointed ears. The Sicán Lord is often interpreted as ñaymlap, the mythical founder of the Sicán dynasties, described in a sixteenth-century Spanish chronicle.
It is pouring rain and I am eating sushi and watching The Wonder Years while surrounded by a bunch of new supplies for my studio. Pretty much my idea of perfection.
This idea that when somebody truly loves you they’ll move heaven and earth for you? Like that’s too much pressure man, I wouldn’t do that for anybody including myself. You gotta just let some shit be. I don’t want that kind of love. I can’t reciprocate.
When you meet someone who tries their hardest to stick by you regardless of how difficult you are, keep them. Keep them at all costs because finding someone who cares enough to look past your flaws isn’t something that happens every day.
I went to bed at 10 last night which is really early for me.
I woke up this morning feeling refreshed for the first time in more than a month. I’ve been overworked, and now I realise that I most likely haven’t been getting enough sleep either.
Going to bed at 1 and 2am every day and waking up at 6:30/7am is taking it’s toll.
Because I’m 42 and not 25 anymore.
Fuck man this is the shit I hate about getting older.
That your body reminds you that you can’t do what you used to.
What is going on with my dash? I just scrolled past something I posted at 6:30 last night and it was near the top of my dash. Did this IOS update break my tumblr app?
I’ll fight you too. California tacos if you know where to go are Mexican tacos because no one speaks English there. I’m the token white girl bellying up for some fresh masa tortillas made right in front of you. Nom now I’m hungry damn it!
Well I’m generalizing. I’m referring to what the general American perception is of Mexican food. It’s incorrect.
When you make a comparison between American tacos and Mexican tacos, what is your source of American tacos? I will fight people over how perfect Mexican food is in San Diego, so I’m curious.
Well I’ve never had tacos in the US that were like Mexican tacos so it would be wherever I’ve had tacos in the States.
soulsistrin 