View allAll Photos Tagged hypocrisy
Times so bad that even angels would wish to crouch and hide, others would prefer death to endless suffering, others again might wish to have never been born in the first place. So many men with guns pulling the religious traditions through the dirt. So much hypocrisy in the 'defence' of democracy; such a corrupted language defining the 'other'; so much violence masquerading as justified reactions. So little preparedness to step into the other's shoes. I could go on. However, when angels are helpless, and when violence is going to create even more violence, the foetal position is the wrong choice. We got to stand up and walk. Sony A7iii, 2x teleconverter, Helios 44M-7.
Geboren in Albi
Look in Large
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec is de afficheontwerper, schilder en chroniqueur van zijn tijd, de "belle époque". Hij is ook de decadente aristocraat die er genoegen in schept de vunzigheid, politieke wanorde, hypocrisie en eenzaamheid van zijn tijd uit te beelden. Hij schetst de verschoppelingen uit zijn maatschappij, in hun intiemste momenten. Hij is ook de kapotte mens die zelf deel uitmaakt van de zwarte nacht van Parijs en de kunstenaar vooral die kijkt en weergeeft, zonder te moraliseren en zonder pretentieus commentaar.
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec is the poster designer, painter and chronicler of his time, the "belle époque". He is also the decadent aristocrat who delights in portraying the filth, political disorder, hypocrisy and loneliness of his time. He sketches the outcasts from his society, in their most intimate moments. He is also the broken man who is himself part of the black night of Paris and the artist above all who looks and renders, without moralizing and without pretentious commentary.
The height of hypocrisy - "Those who supply weapons that kill children cannot teach humanity to Muslims," said Iran's new president Masoud Pezeshkian amid chants of "Death to America" and "Death to Israel."
Starting in 2022, Iran supplies Russia, which unreasonably attacked Ukraine, with thousands of Shahed drones and components for them. The Russians send these drones at night to sleeping cities and villages. These drones kill Ukrainians. What and whose humanity is he talking about?
Вершина лицемірства - "Ті, хто постачає зброю, яка вбиває дітей, не можуть вчити мусульман гуманності", – сказав новий президент Ірану Масуд Пезешкіан під скандування "Смерть Америці" і "Смерть Ізраїлю".
Починаючи з 2022 року Іран поставляє России, яка безпідставно напала на Україну, тисячі дронів «Шахед» та комплектуючі до них. Росіяни відправляють ці дрони вночі на сплячі міста та села України. Ці дрони вбивають українців. Про яку і чию гуманність він говорить?
This is where i unleash my hidden fires. Where i do stuff, where I’m clenched curious. Where I break all societal barriers instead of waiting for its kiss on my forehead. Where I walk nude, spreading a pandemic of fingers on KBs and skins. Where I show the world the hypocrisy and the lies that exist beneath the shimmer. Where I bruise with my acid tongue flooding, eroding the memories of those who passed before me. Where everything is possible, even love. Where I wonder at the triumph of imagination and the mystery of pain. Where i laugh at the beauty of the wig, the farce of geometry and psychosis. Where i search for new time in out-of-season perversions and dreams. Where I expect runaways and magic. Where I believe in nothing and invisible artists. This is where my ʀƎΛO⅂ᴜᴛɪᴏɴ will take place. I’m here to ｃｈａｎｇｅ you.
Unkle - Blackout
I took this photograph in 2013, in my grandparents’ apartment in the city of Nova Kakhovka, Kherson region, South Ukranie. The city of my birth, the city of my childhood. A city I will never see again.
Usually, our parents brought my brother and me here for the summer holidays, but that time I came on my own.
The moon often looked into the window of our bedroom, keeping me awake on hot summer nights. On such nights I usually dreamed about the future, imagined it, imagined myself in 10–20 years, who I would become and what my life would be like.
Sometimes I looked at the glowing windows of the houses standing some distance away across the street and imagined what their residents were doing at that moment, who they were, whether they were happy or sad, what they were thinking and dreaming about.
What I could never have imagined was that a terrible war would break out in my country, that the home of my childhood and the cemetery with the graves of my ancestors would end up under occupation. This is quite a surreal picture for the 21st century.
In the coming days and weeks, Ukraine, and Kyiv in particular, will face intense missile and drone strikes aimed at destroying the remnants of Ukraine’s energy infrastructure, which was only barely restored with great effort after similar attacks in 2023 and 2024.
This time, the Russians will most likely go further: in addition to thermal power plants and transformer substations, they may also destroy gas storage facilities, and perhaps even damage Ukrainian nuclear power plants, plunging Ukraine back into the 19th century (or worse).
Thus, I may once again disappear for a long time, as I will have neither electricity nor Internet (or will be forced to strictly ration the charge of my phone or the occasionally available Internet). One can only hope for a warm winter (the previous ones were relatively mild) and for some kind of miracle that will suddenly happen and save Ukraine from complete collapse, destruction, and disintegration.
I don’t believe in miracles; my mood is now consistently pessimistic and depressive, both regarding the fate of the Ukrainian people (and my own fate in particular), and what will happen on the planet in the next 10 years. In fact, right now, at the cost of Ukrainian lives, the West is trying to buy time. But I don’t see that the West is really preparing for anything.
Yesterday, I read in the news a statement by German Chancellor Friedrich Merz, saying that Germany is not ready for war. Then I checked Germany’s population (98 million as of 2024) and its GDP ($4.66 trillion, which is twice that of Russia). In Ukraine, at best, 25 million people live now (and we have already lost over 1.5 million killed, maimed, captured, or missing), and the GDP is only $190 billion (while the national debt has already exceeded this figure — we are, in fact, a bankrupt country).
Ursula von der Leyen once again repeated her mantra that Ukraine is to be turned into an “iron hedgehog.” But we are not hedgehogs. We are people. And we want peace. If the European Union does not want to fight and cannot really help Ukraine with its armies and weapons, then just stop disrupting the peace process! Stop the hypocrisy, stop buying Russian energy (some states buy oil and gas directly, others do it through various schemes, but they continue to do this).
This is my cry of the soul toward European politicians — globalists (primarily British, German, and French).
As for Donald Trump and the position of the U.S. government — I hope they have the strength and ability to reach an agreement with the countries of the “Global South” to end the war in Ukraine and prevent the next, more global conflict associated with the re-creation of a bipolar world (only now instead of the USSR, the leading force in the “non-democratic bloc” will be China).
At the moment, from my perspective, Trump is not succeeding. And as for Ukraine, he seems simply tired of it, dreaming of shifting the responsibility onto the European “Coalition of the willing but incapable” (as we joke in Ukraine) and forgetting about it like a bad nightmare. But that isn’t working for him either.
Regarding the position of the Ukrainian authorities and my attitude toward them — I will not say anything, since I could be repressed for that. I believe that in Ukraine the question of holding democratic free elections is long overdue. That would change a lot. Two-thirds of Ukrainians, according to the latest Gallup polls, want this horrible, insane war to stop.
So, those are my thoughts. To anyone who read to the end — thank you. I hope we will meet here again. And I wish all good people kindness, peace, and prosperity. See ya! Glory to Ukraine, glory to fallen heroes and to those, who is still holding it.
A tribute for Sinead O’Connor…
who suffered abuse at the hands of her own mother - a member of the Irish Catholic church;
who tore up the picture of the Pope at that time for covering up the abuse of children within the church;
whose son committed suicide;
and all credit to her for her justifiable anger and her courage to speak out against the hypocrisy she could see.
She lived an unfair and difficult, troubled life but ... may she now rest in peace.
Pensées sur l'hypocrisie.........
L'hypocrisie est l'art de cacher ses intentions, ou de tricher sur ses sentiments, ses pensées. L'hypocrisie est toujours négative, contrairement au mensonge qui peut parfois être pour une bonne cause. Avoir une attitude hypocrite, c'est avoir un comportement lâche et malhonnête.
Cependant, il peut arriver qu'on soit hypocrite sans le savoir, en toute bonne foi.
C'est souvent à ses amis et à ses amours qu'on reproche une hypocrisie, une parole non sincère et de toute évidence sans aucune franchise. Il faut parfois être fourbe et doué dans l'art de tromper pour être un bon hypocrite, comme l'est le Tartuffe de Molière.
Thoughts on hypocrisy .........
Hypocrisy is the art of hiding one's intentions, or cheating on one's feelings, thoughts. Hypocrisy is always negative, unlike the lie that can sometimes be for a good cause. To have a hypocritical attitude is to have a cowardly and dishonest behavior.
However, it may happen that one is hypocritical without knowing it, in good faith.
It is often to his friends and loves that one reproaches hypocrisy, a word not sincere and obviously without any frankness. Sometimes it is necessary to be deceitful and gifted in the art of deceiving to be a good hypocrite, as is the Tartuffe de Moliere.
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«Dans la vie, fais confiance à ceux qui peuvent voir ces trois choses: ta peine derrière ton sourire, ton amour malgré ta colère et la raison de ton silence»
"In life, trust those who can see these three things: your pain behind your smile, your love despite your anger and the reason for your silence"
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
These days political life in Greece tested for one more time with economic - political scandals involving illegal trades of well known international companies with politicals and executives of major parties.
I recall Doctor's words in John Steinbeck's "Cannery Row" :
"..And the final paradox of all, is the fact that virtues like honesty, spontaneity, and kindness are - in the world of the machine – almost always associated with "failure," while the traits of "success" include greed, sharpness, suspicion, hypocrisy, envy, disaffection, and general meanness - what Dostoevsky called "the toothache of the soul."
You may post a comment for this here
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Αυτές τις μέρες η πολιτική ζωή στην Ελλάδα δοκιμάζεται για μια ακόμα φορά από οικονομικό – πολιτικά σκάνδαλα σχετικά με παράνομες συναλλαγές ανάμεσα σε φημισμένες πολυεθνικές με πολιτικούς και στελέχη κομμάτων.
Θυμάμαι τα λόγια του γιατρού από το «Δρόμο με τις φάμπρικες» του John Steinbeck:
.. Και το πιο παράξενο απ΄ όλα είναι το ότι οι αρετές όπως η εντιμότητα, ο αυθορμητισμός και η καλοσύνη είναι – στον κόσμο της τεχνολογίας – σχεδόν πάντα συνυφασμένες με την «αποτυχία», ενώ η συνταγή της «επιτυχίας» περιλαμβάνει την απληστία, τη δηκτικότητα, την καχυποψία, την υποκρισία, τη ζήλια, τη δυσαρέσκεια και γενικά αυτό που ο Ντοστογιέφσκι αποκαλούσε «ο πονόδοντος της ψυχής» ..
436, 254
Listening to David Bowie's " I'm afraid of Americans" ~
So much hypocrisy in this country~
Alcohol ,probably the worse drug there is...is legal~
The drug companies produce the worse kind of drugs ( I mean vicodin would be great if they only put the codein in there ;-))
They still look upon Marijuana as a "BAD ' drug..I hear statements like " Oh..I would not want my daughter expose to that ! "
I am not advocating drugs...i am just trying to say that there is something wrong with this society...like Bowie says in that song..sometimes I am afraid of Americans !!!!
Polaroid Go
Automatic
Flash off
Polaroid Color Go black frame edition film
Production Date: 03/ 22
This is a small part that remains with water of the second most important lagoon in my city. The drought is destroying our lakes and lagoons and also many crops; all as a result of the destruction of many forests with indiscriminate burning by the hand of man for their selfish interests without caring one bit about the land they call Pachamama with hypocrisy.
Toni had promised me that for my 55th birthday present we'd go down to Richmond for a Beer, Bourbon & Barbecue festival. Perfection, right? But then I learned she had the date wrong & the festival was really next weekend.
How can you recover from a snafu like that? If you're smart like Toni, you think Muslim. Toni headed down to the Lebanese Butcher and got me a goat instead. A whole goat -- complete with head, liver, and heart -- slaughtered in accordance with Halal dictates.
A day of pure carnivorous pleasure. 16 hours of pure smoky work, what with rubbing the goat with a fiery Jamaican curry paste, getting the fire ready (oak and hardwood charcoal), 10.5 hours of smoking, and an hour or two of pulling, cutting, and saucing (more Scotch Bonnet peppers).
As someone who as a kid used to take portable chess sets along on hunting trips so I wouldn't have to shoot (and clean) a squirrel or deer, I'm kind of proud of overcoming some of my squeamishness and hypocrisy. Although I couldn't finish making the "mannish water," a Jamaican goats head soup that supposedly serves as an organic Viagra, it was not because of squeamishness about the tongue hanging out or the eyes staring out at you, but just because I flat ran out of time before our neighbors arrived for the barbecue goat feast.
España - Asturias - Oviedo - Estatua de La Regenta
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ENGLISH:
La Regenta "The [female] Regent") is a realist novel by Spanish author Leopoldo Alas y Ureña, also known as Clarín, published in 1884 and 1885.
The story is set in Vetusta (Spanish vetusto stands for "antiquated", "extremely old", a provincial capital city, very identifiable with Oviedo, capital of Asturias, where the main character of the work, Ana Ozores "La Regenta", marries the former prime magistrate of the city, Víctor Quintanar, a kind but fussy man much older than she. Feeling sentimentally abandoned, Ana lets herself be courted by the province casanova, Álvaro Mesía. To complete the circle, Don Fermín de Pas (Ana's confessor and canon in the cathedral of Vetusta) also falls in love with her and becomes Mesía's unmentionable rival. A great panorama of secondary characters, portrayed by Clarín with merciless irony, completes the human landscape of the novel.
The author uses the city of Vetusta as a symbol of vulgarity, lack of culture and hypocrisy. On the other hand, Ana incarnates the tortured ideal that perishes progressively before a hypocritical society. With these forces in tension, the Asturian writer narrates a cruel story of Spanish provincial life in the days of the Restoration.
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ESPAÑOL:
La Regenta es la primera novela de Leopoldo Alas «Clarín», publicada en dos tomos en 1884 y 1885. En palabras de su autor, «fue escrita como artículos sueltos» que «según iba escribiendo iba mandando al editor». Gran parte de la crítica la ha considerado la obra cumbre de Clarín y de la novela española del siglo xix, la segunda de la literatura española y uno de los máximos exponentes del naturalismo y del realismo progresista.
La novela, cuya acción transcurre en Vetusta, una ciudad provinciana española tras cuyo nombre enmascaró Clarín a la capital asturiana, Oviedo, constituyó un verdadero escándalo en su momento, sobre todo en Oviedo: el obispo de la ciudad publicó en su contra una pastoral que mereció una réplica de Clarín.
En una ciudad de provincias, Vetusta, vive Ana Ozores, de familia noble venida a menos, casada con don Víctor Quintanar, regente de la Audiencia, del cual le viene el apelativo de "la Regenta". Ana se casó con don Víctor en un matrimonio de conveniencia. Bastante más joven que su marido, al que le une más un sentimiento de amistad y agradecimiento que de amor conyugal, su vida transcurre entre la soledad y el aburrimiento. Es una mujer retraída, frustrada por no ser madre y que anhela algo mejor y desconocido.
El autor se sirve de la ciudad de Vetusta como símbolo de la vulgaridad, la incultura y el fariseísmo. Ana Ozores es un personaje aquejado de aquella patología del espíritu que se conoció como bovarismo. Desde otro punto de vista, Ana encarna la idealidad torturada que perece progresivamente ante una sociedad hipócrita. Con estas fuerzas en tensión, el escritor construyó un alegato cruel e inclemente de la vida provinciana española, ceñida a sus clases dirigentes, en tiempos de la Restauración finisecular.
La Regenta es, sin duda, la obra maestra de Clarín y una de las novelas más importantes de la literatura española. En ella se retrata en toda su complejidad una ciudad de provincias, en la que está representada la sociedad española de la Restauración. Clarín somete a una irónica crítica a todos los estamentos de la ciudad: la aristocracia decadente, el clero corrupto, las damas hipócritas, los partidos políticos. Todo ello conforma una atmósfera social asfixiante y opresiva, con la que choca la protagonista, Ana Ozores. Su temperamento sensible y soñador la lleva a refugiarse en el misticismo; pero su confesor, el canónigo Fermín de Pas, la decepciona cuando intenta aprovecharse de ella. Cae entonces en brazos de Álvaro Mesía, un mediocre don Juan, con el que vivirá una relación amorosa que no resultará ser más que un sucedáneo de sus ideales románticos. En el enfrentamiento entre Ana y Vetusta, la primera acabará siendo vencida, y, en consecuencia, marginada. La importancia de la presión ambiental y social, sobre la protagonista, acerca la novela a las teorías del naturalismo.
Brass trumpet.
Ugly, is an ugly word.
A mirror of reflection.
A stone cast into a pond, and the wave that came back.
Cutting your self with words.
A mirage for a soul.
Waving at yourself in the distance.
A Dorian Gray without a hexed self-portrait.
Nothing left, but a cursed imagination.
Never trust your own eyes.
Cursed magic.
The magic of a curse.
Karma for the cheap.
Entropy for the poor.
A psychosis for the week of mind.
A seven-day turnaround time.
Beautiful Saturday,
inner despair Sunday,
pain Monday,
no hump Wednesday.
A Narcissist up for raffle, the lucky dip wheel.
Tickets sold for a side show mirror personality.
Defending the indefensible?
Nothing to fill the empty hole.
Buried to the neck cold.
Stoned in a glass house, on a freezing day.
No fire in existence to keep you warm.
Hidden from the world.
Sheltering your hypocrisy, hug it to keep you warm.
Ugly is, as ugly is.
Not my call.
The turtles looking on.
In a historical period that is anything but magical, characterized by ancestral fears, hypocrisy, squalid windows of speculation, corruption, ruthless power games on the shoulders of honest people and total disrespect towards the human being; it is beautiful and healthy to notice the regenerating power that nature has on our souls, at times with almost whispered glimpses that seem to want to remind us about the impermanence of all things, even the forces of evil!
This is the therapeutic aspect of health through nature - the care of the soul and psyche in synergy with the organism - something totally forgotten in this period, indeed paradoxically even forbidden... within this increasingly inhuman design, which does not take care of the actual health of people in the least, indeed, quite the opposite it seems to be doing everything to irreparably damage it.
YouTube channel “Organo Santuario della Consolata”
YouTube channel “ALPS pictures & tales”
Instagram @roberto.bertero
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©Roberto Bertero, All Rights Reserved. This image is not available for use on websites, blogs or other media without the explicit written permission of the photographer.
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara, archbishop of Recife (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
Dull the envy in me which criticizes and complains life into a thousand ugly bits.
Keep me honest and tender enough to heal, tough enough to be healed of my hypocrisies.
Match my appetite for privilege with the stomach for commitment.
Teach me the great cost of paying attention that, naked to the dazzle of your back as you pass, I may know I am always on holy ground.
Breathe into me the restlessness and courage to make something new, something saving, and something true...
...that I may understand what it is to rejoice.
ted loder
Jökulsárlón, Iceland
One more Aurora photo from a great session last Easter.
Attention
I am posting this image to try to get as much attention to a issue I have with stolen images.
Fox News published 6 of my images with a gallery from the eruption in Iceland without any permission from me. See: Fox News
I have tried to contact Fox News, by email, by phone, sent a bill, sent a polite email to them, sent another less polite email to them via various email addresses found on their website. No response at all. Its like emailing a black hole, there is nothing coming back.
These media company ferociously defend the copyright of their material but them self steal material from others. Its hypocrisy. The difference is that I have no means of defending myself against them. Does anybody have any advice how to claim my rights? Getting a lawyer is probably going to cost me more than I could ever get back.
If you can share this with other please do so, thank you.
30th April 1:31am: I have contacted Creative Commons to get their input on if usage of the image by Fox News is illegal under "Attribution Non-Commercial No Derivatives". Waiting response.
30th April 11am: Creative Commons did not want to state if the usage was illegal or not.
30th April 11:50am: Contacted Carolyn E. Wright for legal advice as recommended by Younes
6th of May: Fox News agreed on paying a compensation for the image use. Örvar vs. Fox News 1 - 0.
If you would like to photograph the Aurora consider joining my Winter Photo Tour
People may say seagulls are vermin and destructive, but that is hypocrisy. People excuse themselves for the trees they felled, the water they waste, and the habitat they stole from animals, then complain when a seagull steals their burger. Seagulls are no less of a nuisance than we are. Seagulls are simply strong, adaptable creatures that are sharing their homes with us.
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
Here's an example of the many log trucks hauling chopped trees to the mill, where most of it is ground up & shipped to China to be turned into pressed wood for cheap furniture & shipped back to the USA. It's stocked on shelves to be sold to consumers for governments & corporations to profit while they lecture the citizens of the world about climate change, greenhouse gases & melting ice caps. Meanwhile, they cut down the lungs of our planet, which allows us to breathe & also keeps the soil in place with their roots as well as helps maintain a stable climate! Does anyone else see the hypocrisy in this?
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
Tolerance, not discrimination. Fairness, not hypocrisy. Substance, not superficiality. Character, not immaturity. Transparency, not secrecy. Justice, not lawlessness. Environmental improvement and preservation, not destruction. Truth, not lies :-)
― Suzy Kassem
HPPT!!
j c raulston arboretum, ncsu, Raleigh, north carolina
In a world turned upside down
Where the seas they shine and the sky does drown
Where the flowers they fall and rain goes up
Where tiny mouths fill an empty cup
Where the day is dark and the night is light
Predators share love and do not fight
Where birds they crawl and fish they fly
Where the ground looks down at the sky
Where humans walk across skies above
Using missiles to show their love
They destroy, while claiming to save
Showing respect, dancing upon a grave
Hypocrisy becomes the truth, by a sea peace does drown
In a world once sane, now turning upside down
“The best way ah knew tae strike a chord without compromising too much tae the sickening hypocrisy, perversely peddled as decency, which fills the room, is tae stick tae the clichés.”
― Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting
Mi chiedo se ci sia più peccato nel seguire quello che sento o nell'ipocrisia di vivere ciò che non sono.
Fabio Volo
"Le prime luci del mattino"
[I wonder if there's more sin in following what I feel or in the hypocrisy of living what I am not.
Fabio Volo
"The early morning lights"]
CI VEDIAMO A SETTEMBRE!! BUONE FERIE A TUTTI!!
Many of you are probably going to jump on the apparent hypocrisy between this image and the previous one, especially given my self proclaimed "manifesto". But I suppose it's time to come clean - that "darkness manifesto" doesn't hold for every scene, just that some scenes will conform, some moods demand that and some don't. It's an area that I want to explore more deeply, but it is an area, a part of my personality as a photographer and not - if you'll forgive the pun - the whole picture. The difference in my mood once the sun rises might just be palpable here.
I guess only the more serious landsacapists amongst my contacts will have hiked for an hour before dawn to get to a location, but I'm sure you can all understand, the creaking trees, the flapping crows, the mysterious rustle in the bushes that wont reveal itself even in torchlight - the fight to control the nerves, the sheer difficulty of finding a path via a tiny circle of torchlight. It's not necessarily what I'd call a pleasant experience!
Mind you in a perfect world, if I'd had time, the bright stars and the crescent moon hanging low over the salt marshes next to North Hill Tor, would have been something quite special to have illustrated in more than words. Some experiences just need storing away in the memory, sometimes I have to follow my instincts.
Coming to the end of a dawn shoot, when the sun climbs in the sky and you know you have some good images stored away is a mixture of relief, satisfaction and joy that is hard to communicate, but one that is (believe me) worth seeking out.
Whilst I'm discussing what it's like to to be out there taking landscape pix, perhaps it's time to explain the thoughts behind the title "weaving the rainbow". Photography literally photo (light) graphia (writing) is writing with light, - weaving the rainbow is directly analogous to what many artists and photographers pursue, only more poetic, transcending the strictly technical. So this one is dedicated to all my friends out there weaving their own rainbows.
Copyright Open Aspect Photography
When does summer begin for you ? perhaps the calendar or the solar clock. For me it was the start of the cricket season but that’s not going to happen this year. The first rose to come out in the garden is not a bad signpost to summer . Anyway in our garden this Climbing rose called “St Swithun” got there first, but a number of other roses are close behind. St Swithun is of course one of David Austins roses he has bred some wonderful new varieties.
This is for British readers
Well I must say Boris Johnsons press conference left me speechless yesterday; hypocrisy really does not cover it . Which part of “Stay at Home” did Cummings not understand given he came up with the slogan
I may be speechless but Steve Canavan is not and but he has written a cracking song on the subject
THANKS FOR YOUR VISITING BUT CAN I ASK YOU NOT TO FAVE AN IMAGE WITHOUT ALSO MAKING A COMMENT. MANY THANKS KEITH. ANYONE MAKING MULTIPLE FAVES WITHOUT COMMENTS WILL SIMPLY BE BLOCKED
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A COMPULSIVE DRAWER. I would declare war on every blank area left on notebooks, desks, chalk-boards and school walls. My teachers never appreciated this, but I did win recognition among the other kids. But I was independent and pretty much a loner. I rarely communicated verbally, but I never failed to communicate by using my favourite language: images.
Luckily for me, it was my grandparents who practically raised me, instilling in me all the values I retain to this day. But even though my grandparents offered material and emotional support, I felt abandoned. It was a pain that was muted and sometimes battered into submission, but it invariably came to surface. Plus I sensed that there was something else, a much more disturbing truth that lay at the core of the adult world. Being much too young to identify it, it remained a frustrated inarticulate feeling. But there was something clearly evident in my drawings that expressed those feelings. My talent for drawing, my attention to detail, and above all, my grotesque sense of humor were obvious in the drawings.
By the age of eight, whatever I had lodged in the back of my mind came forward in a blurry approximation in art. It was art that rescued me. Many of the drawings had an underlying dark tone. The drawings gave my incoherent inner world some form of expression and substance, however crudely rendered. Grown-ups had a profound effect on my artistic development, but not in a way they would have approved. I began to observe and to judge people, making evaluations about their nature and characters. This, too, found its way in my drawings. One could see from the progression of drawings a groping and developing maturity. It was a discovery and odyssey of self.
A teacher observed one of my drawings, and obviously dismayed, he asked: “What is the matter Victor?”
I answered: “What is the matter with everybody else?”
A conscious awareness of the adult world came into sharper focus: my overall impression of adults was that they were bogus liars and hypocrites, saying not what they thought, but rather what they believed would serve some particular purpose, some hidden agenda. Everybody came armed with two faces. It seemed to me that the world thrived on bullshit, hypocrisy and lies. I noted a desperate whoring after status, an irrational and pathetic desire to “beat the Jones” followed up by saccharine sentimentality by mealy-mouthed charlatans—and all of it showcased to the people they themselves loathed. Lies, backstabbing, deception, two-faces, malice and hypocrisy was the currency of exchange in the adult world. And so I took a profound disliking to most people I came across. I could sense the spiritual emptiness and viciousness within them. I wanted to like and admire people but I rarely came across anyone who was worthy of it. The only noted exceptions were my grandparents.
I HAD TURNED SIXTEEN JUST A FEW MONTHS before the holidays. Christmas brought distant relatives and immediate family together at the Pross household. For me, people were bad enough on their own but it became worse when they assembled together under the same roof. It was on such occasions that fully demonstrated the insanity and phoniness of these people. I would scan the large living room absorbing the adults sitting on the couches and chairs, each one looking anxious and distant. They were tipsy on day-long benders of Bloody Caesars, making efforts to appear jovial. There was a constant display of smiley backslapping and “Merry Christmases” by people who maligned one another the moment backs were turned. There was an unvarying spectacle of petty bickering over trivia and the sudden surfacing of years-long resentments best forgotten. All the forms of human flaws and ugliness to be found in the world---a world which insists on being imperfect—were on display before the eyes of the juvenile artist.
To lighten the mood, somebody put a dance song on. I watched with keen interest as glasses were overturned by dancing feet and the coffee table was moved out of the way to make room. A frenzy of stimulation bubbled in the room and everyone’s voice rose imperceptibly in pitch. As far as I was concerned, it was a circus.
Each relative represented an unsavory social stereotype or archetype of one kind or another. They were caricatures. From the town’s busy body gossip-monger tyrant--to the dour spinster forever spouting on about “God’s wrath”--to the town’s fast-talking used car salesman who dressed like a big city pimp---to every other stereotype imaginable. It was all there. This was no less true when it came to Uncle Bernard, better known as “Bernie.” Sitting near the Christmas tree, I was observing him closely. He was the jet-set wannabe playboy type. He sported a dyed perm that looked as if had come straight off a Styrofoam head from 1973. Assuming himself a lady-killer, he actually had all the charm of a toupee made of straw dipped in black ink. With each attempt at a pickup he was invariably shot down. “Lesbian!” he would bellow at women who rejected him.
Sitting next to Bernie was my mother, Terry. She was immersed in conversation, laughing with a forced hilarity, her drink spilling over. There was something that troubled me about my mother. She was a woman who was so utterly self-absorbed, forever preoccupied with what others thought. My mother’s sense of personal value was crucially dependent on the image of herself as a glamorous beauty. At the age of thirty-eight, she was wont to ask for reassurances of her looks. “Do you think I have nice legs? I use to be a Go-Go dance, you know?” and “When was the last time you saw a woman as gorgeous as me—and at my age?” With each passing year she began to perceive every wrinkle on her face as a metaphysical menace. Taking aging as a threat to her identity, she plunged into a series of sexual relationships with men fifteen years her junior demanding fresh admiration to assuage her hollowness.
My mother’s constant need for validation annoyed me. I was nevertheless fascinated with human behavior. What I perceived in my mother was a definite narcissism, only I didn’t have the word for it at the age of sixteen. Spurred by mother’s conceit, I decided to try an experiment. I played upon her vanity by offering her a lavish compliment, just to see her reaction. My motive wasn’t flattery for flattery’s sake, it was a psychological experiment.
I tapped my mother on the shoulder, interrupting her conversation.
“Mom?”
My mother turned to me, clearly annoyed, her expression a fusion of wonder and irritation.
“Victor dear, can’t you see I’m talking to this nice gentleman?”
“But mom, I need to tell you something.”
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“I just wanted to say that…you look just like Marilyn Monroe.”
My mother took a deep intake of breathe. She clapped her hands in appreciation and snuggled her darling son into her arms. “Did you hear that?” she demanded of the guests. The room fell to a hushed silence. “What is it, Terry?” asked a guest. “My boy said I look like Marilyn Monroe. That’s my boy! Oh, he knows a good looking chick when he sees one!” My mother then let out an exuberant laugh, which itself was enough to draw attention. After a few more brandy-laced eggnogs, my mother became more of an embarrassment. She made damn well sure to tell new arrivals at the party what her son had said about her. It was a compliment that was warmly recalled by her for years to come. I had always regretted my causal flattery.
I appreciated the art of caricature more so than ever before. I enjoyed the spectacle of observing the reaction of anyone I nailed in a drawing. When people observed a grotesque drawing I had rendered of them—in dead-on accuracy---they would dissolve in self-consciousness. This had a clinical kind of fascination to me. Although one can be disconcerted at witnessing an open incision, I got some amazing glimpses of their guts. What came out of it was a deeply ingrained self-doubt. I knew my art had the power to reach people. “You are a sick guy, Pross,” said one of my displeased subjects. “How is it that I’m sick,” I responded, amazed by this sudden psychological evaluation. “The drawing portrays how you are—not me.”
Observing my mania for drawing, my grandfather decided to have a heart-to-heart chat with me. He entered my room as I sat at my desk, which was littered with sketchpads of drawings and half-ass watercolors.
Grandfather picked up a sketch pad flipping through it. “You have a real talent there, my boy,” he said. A firm hand rested on my shoulder. “It would be a shame if that went to waste”
I smiled and lowered my head.
“There are a lot of people who always dump on me for drawing, granddaddy.”
He smiled. “When it comes to insults, consider the source---and also try to consider what you think may be their motivation.”
My grandfather put an encouraging arm around me, playfully mussing up my hair.
He pulled up a nearby chair and sat down next to me.
“Now listen to me,” he said with a pinch of gravity, “you have a talent, son—a very evident and rare talent, but you can’t expect it to do all the work for you. You have to hone and develop that talent. If you want to be an artist, it takes practice, practice, practice. It is about hard work. It’s not enough to have talent alone. You need to have a hunger. You understand?”
I smiled. “I need to be a hungry artist?”
“I’m serious, son.”
“I know. So am I”
“Good. That’s right, a hungry artist.”
“I am. It’s like a compulsion. I feel so good when I’m drawing. It lifts me up. I need to express what I have going on inside of me. I suppose that is a hunger.”
I paused for a moment. My grandfather looked at me, his clear blue eyes beaming. His smile conveyed immense admiration…and hope. “I love you, grandson.”
I couldn’t express in words the feeling that I felt so abundantly. The love and admiration I felt for this man was great, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him so for some reason. And so I simply smiled and look downward, hoping that this motion expressed what should have said with words.
Not everyone responded with agitation to the drawings of this teenage caricature artist. Sam Ferguson, the owner of the diner I frequented at the time, was blessed with a robust sense of humor. As he observed one of my renderings, he laughed with his whole body, his heavy-set frame shook like a bowl of Jell-O resting on the clothes dryer in final spin. “You are a crazy son of a bitch!” Gus hollowed. “How do you think of this stuff?” In the drawing, I had Gus lurched over a hot stove stirring the day’s soup special with beads of sweat dripping into the pot. In the background, one can see an unsuspecting customer slurping the broth, bellowing, ‘Gus, I love the extra flavor you added!’
“Come here, my boy,” Gus said, sliding a hamburger and fries over to me. “Here’s your payment for a job well done.”
“You’re paying me for that drawing…by feeding me?”
Gus looked astonished that I was astonished. “Of course! A man should be paid for his work. That drawing is hanging on my wall, and it gives me a great deal of pleasure.”
“It does.”
“You are very talented. Hey, I want to frame it and hang it up on my office wall. How much do you want for it?”
“You just paid me,” I answered, biting into the hamburger.
“No, not that, that’s a token payment, I’m talking about really paying you. That is a work of art we’re talking about!”
“I don’t know…”
“Here,” Gus said, taking my hand and slipping a hundred dollar bill into it.
“Hey man, are you serious—a hundred bucks!”
“Too little?”
“No, this is cool. Thanks Gus!”
“One day you are going to be a famous artist. People will be paying you a lot more than a measly hundred bucks. Hey, don’t think that I’m cheating you…I’m not a rich guy.”
“Come on, Gus, I know that. This is so cool, man. If only my grandfather could see this.”
I realized that I could temper my art with light-hearted humor, the gentle good wit that my grandfather imparted in me—along with the acerbic wit characteristic of Barry McConnell. It was here that this artist punk learned that caricature has both a dark and light face to it. I also learned that the caricatures I drew, and the people who inspired them, were not confined to the community where I lived. They circled the globe. It was to the wider culture that my focus turned. I had so much to learn and so much to express.
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**above photo is of my mother--Terry, my oldest brother--Robert, and Kevin (with his arm around me).
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
I've got my things packed
My favorite pillow
Got my sleeping bag
Climb out the window
All the pictures and pain
I left behind
All the freedom and fame
I've gotta find
And I wonder
How long it'll take them to notice that I'm gone
And I wonder
How far it'll take me
To run away
It don't make any sense to me
Run away
This life makes no sense to me
Run away
It don't make any sense to me
Run away
It don't make any sense to me
I was just trying to be myself
You go your way I'll meet you in hell
It's all these secrets that I shouldn't tell I've got to run away
It's hypocritical of you
Do as you say not as you do
I'll never be your perfect girl
I've got to run away
I'm too young to be
Taken seriously
But I'm too old to believe
All this hypocrisy
And I wonder
How long it'll take them to see my bed is made
And I wonder
If I was a mistake
Here I go again.... Playing with fire this time LOL :D
Kids don't try this at home!
A decade ago, I never thought I would be.
At twenty three on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Woe-is-me
But I guess that it goes with the territory.
Anonymous landscape of never-ending calamity.
I need you to hear. I need you to see.
That I have had all I can take
And exploding seems like a definite possibility
To me
So Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
So Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me. I'll never be the same.
Not two days ago I was having a look in a book
And I saw a picture of a guy fried up above his knees
I said I can relate
Cause lately I've been thinking of combustication as a welcomed vacation from.
The burdens of the planet earth, like gravity, hypocrisy, and the perils of being in 3-D
And thinking so much differently.
So Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and it's people's mindless games
Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me. I'll never be the same.
Never be the same... --Incubus
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
Published in Y Sin Embargo #19, super#Fissue: the conventional and the empty/emptied gesture. The effects of a centrifugal and hypocritical, forgetful and self-referential society, in permanent escape, where nobody raises a matter or questions anything anymore.
Many thanks to fernandoprats and YSE team.
The Atsara is an integral part of many Bhutanese festivals. Primarily an agent of mirth and merriment, the red faced comical characters are generally thought of as clowns, wielding phalluses at tshechu festivals. The Atsara character, however, is more than just entertainment. The Atsara combines the spirits of the sacred and the profane, wit and wisdom, humour and responsibility. He uses his pranks to help his audiences not only to forget their worries and problems but also to prod them to overcome their sense of self-importance, hypocrisy and false propriety.
i start to feel like i can't maintain the facade any longer,
that i may just start to show through.
and i wish i knew what was wrong.
maybe something about how stupid my whole life is,
i don't know.
why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy,
the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?
i don't know the answer,
i know only that i can't.
i don't want any more vicissitudes,
i don't want any more of this try,
try again stuff.
i just want out.
i've had it.
i am so tired.
i am sixteen,
and i am already exhausted.
-elizabeth wurtzel
“There are three kinds of violence. The first, mother of all the others, is institutional violence, that which legalizes and perpetuates domination, oppression and exploitation, that which crushes and laminates millions of men in its silent and well-oiled wheels.
The second is revolutionary violence, which arises from the desire to abolish the first.
The third is repressive violence, the object of which is to stifle the second by making itself the auxiliary and the accomplice of the first violence, that which engenders all the others.
There is no worse hypocrisy to call violence only the second, while pretending to forget the first, which gives birth to it, and the third which kills it. »
Don Helder Camara (February 7, 1909 – August 27, 1999)
He was...
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Hypocrisy disappoints me. I once told myself, as much fun as those fake tilt-shifts look, I'd never do one. I almost judged them (!) The only tilt-shift I'll ever attempt is with a real lens. Ha! So much for that. I gave in to the temptation. This is my first ever post-processing attempt for the effect. Wish I had a few more takes of the view to work with.
How are you all?
Dear Veteran,
The politicians who've never served are quick to send you to war, maybe to your grave, to an antiquated VA hospital, or to let you live as a homeless person on the street. Just like the armchair zealots who beat their chests on social media and strut like real badasses at every opportunity for conflict.
But come election time, we praise our courageous veterans, hang flags on your graves, and make grandiose promises about all we'll do for you.
And the election comes and it goes, and the VA hospitals remain antiquated, you're still living on the streets, and your graves cry out for justice. But no one hears.