Mgła na łąkach za domem.
Było tak cicho, jakby nagle zamarzł na kość cały świat.
Płonący dom.
Ciepła klacz o imieniu Nancy.
A to jej towarzysz o grzywie czarnej jak węgiel.
Ostatnie dni takiego słońca.
Jeszcze ciepły sernik Mamusi.
Melisa i mięta na kolację.
Landrynki Mamusi.
Orzechy suszą się na słońcu.
Drewutnia za domem. Tutaj mieszkają myszy i robaczki świętojańskie.
Mamusia z Tatusiem przygotowują liście miłorzębu na długą zimę.
Weź mnie tam ze sobą!
ReplyDeleteLaura już biegnie, żeby zabrać tam obcą osobę, patrz
DeleteKiedyś gdzieś już pisałaś o miłorzębie, do czego go używasz, jesli mogę zapytać?
ReplyDeleteMoja Mama robi z niego wywar, ja biorę go w tabletkach (pomaga mi przede wszystkim na koncentrację - likwiduje w dużym stopniu tak zwaną "gonitwę myśli").
DeleteDziękuję za odpowiedź. :)
DeleteCudowne miejsce oraz konie prześliczne. Chciałoby się choć dzień spędzić w tym domu. :)
ReplyDeleteI've followed your blog since last winter. Everything I mean everything is so beautiful. You're giving meaning to every photo. To life. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteLove the colour on the first pic, and the ones with the horses, the pie and the candys. Love the atmosphere in all them.
ReplyDeleteKisses,
http://daughterofsohoriots.blogspot.com.es/
Mara.
Trochę głupio pisać kolejny raz, że pięknie i magicznie, ale cóż poradzę gdy Twoje zdjęcia takie są. Niezwykle inspirujące.
ReplyDeletePiękne kolory zdjęć! Jakiego aparatu używasz? Nakładasz jakieś filtry, że wychodzą takie ciepłe barwy?
ReplyDeleteYesterday at around 4 pm I was feeling restless, I felt that I had to go immediately in a book store somewhere at some metro stations from home. In that book store and not another.
ReplyDeleteI spent maybe half an hour there looking at art books, among which a book about contemporary photographic nudes (very kitsch, a pervert's dream book), and all of a sudden, on a shelf with art documentaries, I saw one called The Woodmans. I felt it was that ne I had to buy, I did not even read what it was about. On the cover, young girl, looking in the camera, wearing a dress with polka dots, and making a mysterious sign with her hand, which reminded me of the obscene sign the teenage Gilberte makes when Proust's Narrator sees her for the first time, on her father's estate, in spring.
Late at night, after a successful photo shoot with a young Russian student from St. Petersburg (she posed for me as the Godess of Winter, holding closely her faithfull white deer) I finally saw the documentary.
It was about Francesca Woodman, who commited suicide only some days after I was born, at 22 years of age. It showed many of her photos, erotic, playfull, intelligent, gothic. She photographed mostly herself and a handfull of young friends, and tthe characters in the small square black-and-white photos look like melancholic ghosts.
The movie was not really about her, but mostly about how her family of accomplished artists (though not as famous as Francesca) dealt with her death and postumous success. They were kind and noble, and had loved their daughter and sister deeply, but they were honest in describing their mixed feelings. How do you feel, as an artist, when, after a life of hard work, you all of a sudden become famous just because of one member of your family, who incarnates the spirit of one generation? Their answers were terrifying in their humanity. I fell in love with them all.
Today I ran to the same shop again, an bought an album of Francesca Woodman's photography. My muse.
I love your photos ... so beautiful! The colors are so great ....
ReplyDeleteElisabeth
http://elisabethgatterburg.blogspot.com/