Derek Parfit

Derek Parfit

commandmodulepilot:

Apollo 15 - Launched 43 Years ago today - Climb aboard the Lunar Rover…

(via spaceexp)

likeafieldmouse:

Lennart Nilsson

"Nothing is more real than nothing."

Samuel Beckett

(Source: likeafieldmouse)

Cover design for Lolita
Jamie Keenan

Cover design for Lolita

Jamie Keenan

(Source: Spotify)

the-pietriarchy:

.

greatleapsideways:

The first essential is to take knowledge back to the springs, because despite everything and especially the recent events carried under that flag, there is specific power in the idea of it that what is known can be used to pick up or more usually to hold on and develop as what for the econometrist is “profitable speculation”-the intellect on the trigger once more, as those poor seventh century Irish monks (being sentimentalists) would have believed if they could. If there’s any need for proof & it can be kept from running to violence (to which ex- tremity it should anyway perhaps be swooping homewards) the twist-point is “purchase”-what the mind bites on is yours the prime joy of control engineering is what they please to denote (through the quartzite window) “self- optimizing systems”, which they like to consider as a plan for the basic living unit. And thus “accelerating the con- vergence of function”, we come to our maximal stance. Imperialism was just an old, very old name for that idea, that what you want, you by historic process or just readiness to travel, also “need”-and need is of course the sacred daughter through which you improve, by becoming more extensive. Competitive expansion: if you can designate a prime direction as Drang nach Osten or the Western Frontier, that’s to purify the idea by recourse to History before it happens. Envisaging the chapter- head in the historical outline as “the spirit (need) of the age”-its primary greed, shielded from ignominy by the like practice of too many others. That of course is not expansion but acquisition (as to purchase the Suez Canal was merely a blatant example): the true expansion is probably drift, as the Scythians being nomadic anyway for the most part slipped sideways right across the Russian steppes, from China by molecular friction through to the Polish border. Otherwise it’s purchase, of a natural course, the alteration or storage of current like dams in the river: what starts as irrigation ends up selling the megawattage across the grid. The grid is another sign, is knowledge in applique-work actually strangled & latticed across the land; like the intangible consumer networks, as the market defines wants from single reckoning into a social need, graphed for instance as “contour tangent elimination”. And the drift of that is again to divert the currency (as now in England to the north- east). As, it was actually losing its grip on the population: real people, slipping off the face of that lovely ground, leaving the green and pleasant lands of Northumberland to be near the belly & catch scraps with the shit that we set out so grudgingly on plates for the blind to eat in gratitude. The grip is purchase again, and the current chic of information theory will tell you how many bits of that commodity it takes to lift one foot/lb. of shit to a starving mouth, or not starving actually, but just rather unthinkingly hungry. And don’t let some wise and quick-faced historical rat tell us about the industrial north and its misery, since every songbird since then (& with no honourable exception for D.H. Lawrence) has carolled about that beautiful black colour as if this were the great rot in the heart. It was not and is not. The twist-point of this is again power by the grid, putting lives into strings of consequence into molecular chains like the pit-ponies we love to cry over. Coal is so beautiful as I could weep over the carbon it shines with: what is scattered over these colliery towns is not soot or sulphur or coal or foaming detergent but the waste produced by mass conversion of want (sectional) into need (social & then total). All this by purchase on the twist-point, the system gone social to disguise the greed of ambition swimming in great seismic shocks through the beds of our condition. All the needles are twitching frantically across their smoky paper, but society is “predictably” as we know “in a state of ferment”-as if that could ever turn to wine or raise bread, from the sad shit it is, to that crispy crunchy loaf we shall all eat only in heaven. The fact is that right from the springs this water is no longer fit for the stones it washes: the water of life is all in bottles & ready for invoice. To draw from that well we must put on some other garment. Do what one can, that’s the gas-and-water talk, which is “do what we can” and we are the social strand which is already past the twist point & into the furnace. We don’t burn only because we are invisible to each other, our shoulders no longer so hopeless and beautiful as they meet at the spine rising up the dorsal rift: lovely and lonely, until the whole spread squints into the neck, and vanishes, into the head. And unlike Cerberus we all share the same head, our shoulders are denied by the nuptial joys of television, so that what I am is a special case of what we want, the twist-point missed exactly at the nation’s scrawny neck. What runs back, or could be traced upstream by simply denying that conspiracy of “cause”, is the question of names & the seven tribes, which are not “predictions” and socially can be grouped only by the thinnest of generalising systems. As these are not economically self-centering, they cannot be used as designations for targets (like the gun sight on what “we want”). And the back mutation is knowledge and has always been so in the richest tradition of the trust it is possible to have, to repose in the mysteries. The perversions which thrust it forward, as a new feed into the same vicious grid of expanding prospects (profits) are let through by the weakness, now, of names. There is no other break in the descent, since without that it’s all break anyway. The purity is a question of names. We are here to utter them. This is a prayer. I have it now between my teeth and my eyes, on my forehead. Know the names. It is as simple as the purity of sentiment: it is as simple as that.

— “Die a Millionaire" by J.H. Prynne, from Kitchen Poems, (1968). Painting entitled “Calling Time” by Christopher Wool (1990).

greatleapsideways:

The first essential is to take knowledge
back to the springs, because despite
everything and especially the recent
events carried under that flag, there is
specific power in the idea of it

that
what is known can be used to pick up
or more usually to hold on and develop
as what for the econometrist is
“profitable speculation”-the intellect
on the trigger once more, as those
poor seventh century Irish monks (being
sentimentalists) would have believed
if they could.

If there’s any need
for proof & it can be kept from
running to violence (to which ex-
tremity it should anyway perhaps
be swooping homewards) the twist-point
is “purchase”-what the mind
bites on is yours

the prime joy of
control engineering is what they please
to denote (through the quartzite window) “self-
optimizing systems”, which they like
to consider as a plan for the basic
living unit. And thus “accelerating the con-
vergence of function”, we come to our
maximal stance.

Imperialism was just
an old, very old name for that
idea, that what you want, you by
historic process or just readiness
to travel, also “need”-and
need is of course the sacred daughter
through which you improve, by
becoming more extensive. Competitive
expansion: if you can designate a
prime direction as Drang nach Osten
or the Western Frontier, that’s to
purify the idea by recourse to History

before it happens. Envisaging the chapter-
head in the historical outline as “the
spirit (need) of the age”-its primary
greed, shielded from ignominy by the
like practice of too many others.

That
of course is not expansion but acquisition
(as to purchase the Suez Canal was merely
a blatant example): the true expansion
is probably drift, as the Scythians
being nomadic anyway for the most part
slipped sideways right across the Russian
steppes, from China by molecular friction
through to the Polish border.

Otherwise it’s
purchase, of a natural course, the alteration
or storage of current like dams in the
river: what starts as irrigation ends up
selling the megawattage across the grid.

The grid is another sign, is knowledge
in applique-work actually strangled & latticed
across the land; like the intangible consumer
networks, as the market defines wants from
single reckoning into a social need, graphed
for instance as “contour tangent elimination”.
And the drift of that is again to divert the
currency (as now in England

to the north-
east). As, it was actually losing its grip
on the population: real people, slipping off
the face of that lovely ground, leaving the
green and pleasant lands of Northumberland
to be near the belly & catch scraps
with the shit that we set out so grudgingly
on plates for the blind to eat in gratitude.

The grip is purchase again, and the current
chic of information theory will tell you how
many bits of that commodity it takes to
lift one foot/lb. of shit to a starving mouth,
or not starving actually, but just rather
unthinkingly hungry.

And don’t let some
wise and quick-faced historical rat tell us about
the industrial north and its misery, since every
songbird since then (& with no honourable
exception for D.H. Lawrence) has carolled about
that beautiful black colour as if
this were the great rot in the heart.

It was not and is not. The twist-point
of this is again power by the grid, putting
lives into strings of consequence into
molecular chains like the pit-ponies we love
to cry over. Coal is so beautiful as I
could weep over the carbon it shines with:
what is scattered over these colliery towns
is not soot or sulphur or coal or foaming
detergent but the waste produced by
mass conversion of want (sectional) into
need (social & then total). All this by
purchase on the twist-point, the system gone
social to disguise

the greed of ambition
swimming in great seismic shocks through
the beds of our condition. All the needles are
twitching frantically across their smoky paper,
but society is “predictably” as we know “in
a state of ferment”-as if that could ever turn
to wine or raise bread, from the sad shit it
is, to that crispy crunchy loaf we shall all
eat only in heaven.

The fact is that right
from the springs this water is no longer fit
for the stones it washes: the water of life
is all in bottles & ready for invoice. To draw
from that well we must put on some
other garment. Do what one can, that’s
the gas-and-water talk, which is “do
what we can” and we are the social strand
which is already past the twist point &
into the furnace. We don’t burn only
because

we are invisible to each other,
our shoulders no longer so hopeless and
beautiful as they meet at the spine rising
up the dorsal rift: lovely and lonely, until
the whole spread squints into the neck, and
vanishes, into the head.

And unlike Cerberus
we all share the same head, our shoulders
are denied by the nuptial joys of television,
so that what I am is a special case of
what we want, the twist-point missed exactly
at the nation’s scrawny neck.

What runs
back, or could be traced upstream by simply
denying that conspiracy of “cause”, is the
question of names & the seven tribes,
which are not “predictions” and socially can
be grouped only by the thinnest of
generalising systems. As these are not
economically self-centering, they cannot be
used as designations for targets (like
the gun sight on what “we want”).

And the back mutation is knowledge and
has always been so in the richest tradition
of the trust it is possible to have, to repose
in the mysteries. The perversions which
thrust it forward, as a new feed into the
same vicious grid of expanding prospects
(profits) are let through by the weakness, now,
of names.

There is no other break in the
descent, since without that it’s all break
anyway. The purity is a question of
names. We are here to utter them. This is
a prayer. I have it now between my
teeth and my eyes, on my forehead. Know
the names. It is as simple as the purity
of sentiment: it is as simple
as that.

— “Die a Millionaire" by J.H. Prynne, from Kitchen Poems, (1968). Painting entitled “Calling Time” by Christopher Wool (1990).

ryeou:

outfits from minimade

(via englishsnow)

greatleapsideways:

"In a Dutch interior, the backview of a personage who draws a curtain aside to look at a painting on the far wall acts as my alter ego, doing what I am doing and reminding me (in case I missed the point of the picture’s immense ebony frame) that I too am looking at a flat object. Better still, such seventeenth-century interiors as Velázquez’ Ladies in Waiting often juxtapose a doorway or window view with a framed painting, and, next to that, a mirror filled with a reflection. These three kinds of image serve as an inventory of the three possible roles assignable to a picture plane. The window pane or proscenium effect refers to what lies behind it, the looking glass refers to what lies before, while the pigmented surface asserts itself; and all three are paraded in sequence. Such pictures soliloquize about the capacities of the surface and the nature of illusion itself.

Again and again, in so-called illusionist art, it is illusionism that is under discussion, the art “calling attention to art” in perfect self-critical consciousness. And this is why the Old Masters are forever inventing interferences with spatial recession. They do not merely “take account” of the tension between surface and depth, as if for the sake of decorative coherence, while reserving their thrust for the depiction of depth. Rather, they maintain an explicit, controlled, ever-visible dualism. Fifteenth-century perspective was not a surface-denying illusion of space, but the symbolic form of space as an intelligible coordinate surface pattern. Good illusionist painting not only anchors depth to the plane; it is almost never without built-in devices designed to suspend the illusion, and the potency of these devices depends—like the appreciation of counterpoint or of puns—on the spectator’s ability to register two things in concert, to receive both the illusion and the means of illusion at once.”

— Leo Steinberg, delivering a thorough-going critique of Clement Greenberg’s model of modernism in painting, in Other Criteria (1972). Photographs by Jeff WallEva Vermandel and Philip-Lorca diCorcia respectively.

It’s interesting to consider the extent to which photography has incorporated and energised the ‘ever-visible dualism’ to which Steinberg refers in relation to paintings by the Old Masters. Moreover, the problematic question of realism in photography can be understood, in the light of Steinberg’s critique, to stem in large part not from the visual language of fine art photography’s illusionism, but from the indexical relationship of the camera to the world — a relationship that complicates otherwise long-standing conventions of figurative depiction.