FFFFFFFF. FFFFF. FFFFFFF. See you at some unknown time in the future tumblr.

symphonyno2ineminor:

Johannes Braaa-ahms?!

GUTEN TAAAAAAAAG! unf unf unf unf

Still Life, c. 1625  - Pieter Claesz

(via frost-at-midnight)

ckck: 014477 Flat-Iron Building. Fifth Avenue and Broadway, New York. Detroit Photographic Co.

ckck:

The Flatiron Building, New York City, by Edward Steichen (1904).

Probably my favourite building in all of New York City.

Probably mine, too.

symphonyno2ineminor:

Early Sunday Morning, 1930

Edward Hopper

However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures.  No.  One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life.  It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass.  Do they know what they’re missing?  Uh huh.

- from “Meditations In An Emergency,” Frank O’Hara

(via Porterness)

Although I prefer the empty, cityscape Hopper, I present to you now Nighthawks, or, AN ARGUMENT FOR POPULATED EDWARD HOPPER PAINTINGS

(because really, they present a type of loneliness and a portrait of the city that is entirely different from what we see elsewhere. They remind us that we are the voyeur, and we love it.)

In his essay The Crack Up, F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “…in a real dark night of the soul, it is 3 o’clock in the morning, day after day… At that hour the tendency is to refuse to face things as long as possible by retiring into an infantile dream — but one is continually startled out of this by various contacts with the world.”

In Hopper’s Nighthawks, do we know what time it is? The faces and figures of the night owls who fill this isolated diner reflect the dark souls that gather there, a moment frozen in time without any context other than what I can imagine. No door seems to be visible onto the cool street corner. The inhabitants of the diner, in their dark 3 o’clock souls, “refuse to face things” outside of tiny hand touches and cold coffee. Even in the middle of the night, there are always other nighthawks; they prowl the streets, eat at the automats and the cafes, frequent Laundromats. There is always traffic. However, in Hopper’s depopulated nighttime world, loneliness and isolation absorb these friendless figures instead.

symphonyno2ineminor:

Approaching a City, 1946

Edward Hopper