Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a little.

W.B. Yeats, The Celtic Twilight (1893)

At the Cafe des Ambassadeurs, 1885, Edgar Degas

Medium: pastel

Romeria del Rocio, Seville, Spain.

Inge Morath, 1955

In an ideal life, I would be making Turkish coffee for everyone and sharing between us the gnomic poetry of our days.

Statue of Venus in a Roman Bath House at Sabrata, Libya

We spent our time fleeing from the objective into the subjective and from the subjective into objectivity. This game of hide-and-seek will end only when we have the courage to go to the limits of ourselves in both directions at once.

Jean-Paul Sartre, Saint Genet (1952)

Juan Gris (Spanish, 1887-1927), El fumador, 1913. Oil on canvas, 73 x 54 cm

Philip-Lorca diCorcia, Catherine, 1981

If you're primary concern at the sight of Palestinians tortured and buried alive in mass graves, or at the sight of thousands of young people protesting against their destruction, is to scaremonger about the possible presence of anti-Semites among their ranks, then you must reevaluate your priorities and ask whether 'combating anti-Semitism on the left' is now simply shielding a desire to dehumanise Arabs and any who stand in solidarity with them.

The Homecoming, 1854, Gustave Courbet

Medium: oil,canvas

The sick reality is that many of the renowned academics and writers among Gaza's thousands of martyrs will, in twenty years time, be quoted and memorialised by the same universities and institutions that have denigrated them and enabled their slaughter.

Bruno Barbey - Paris. Sorbonne university. 1968.

The Air, 1937, Joan Miro

Medium: lithography

Edmund Kesting • Nude, Made of Gelatin silver print

Refreshed by nature's infinite pool of not giving a fuck.

Self-portrait, c.1645 / Salvator Rosa (The Latin inscription is “Keep silent or say something better than silence”)

Música popular brasileira is what I imagine Coleridge heard when he took opium.