Whatever — the soup is getting cold.
— Last sentence of a mathematical theorem in Leonardo da Vinci’s notebook, 1518 (via tat-art)


British-born, Italy-based sculptor Matthew Simmonds is an art-historian-turned-stone-carver who sculpts beautiful architectural interiors inside rough pieces of marble and stone. His pieces look like miniature classical monuments and temples, empty of people, but full of intricate details.

“To create a sculpture that catches the light and structure of a building and lets the eye wander, to feel that here my eye could live, here a part of me could stay, is a great achievement,“ writes Simmonds. “The sculptures give the viewer a different perspective on space. They look different from every viewpoint. You long to be in them, and they seem almost more meaningful for that.“

To view more of Matthew Simmonds’ intricate sculptures click here.

[via Colossal]

Reblogged from Things She Loves
Reblogged from Vanilla skeleton


Ed Fairburn

Some how we missed this altogether earlier this year even though it seems like it was all over the net and rightly so. Based in Cardiff he draws these highly detailed portraits on maps ranging from sleepy Suffolk to the metropolises of Paris, engraving his subjects faces onto the maps, allowing the natural flow of the map to aid the portrait and not having to two entities to collide.  7

Reblogged from Utterly Banal


Thousands of flower petals covering a town, blasted from a neighboring volcano, in Costa Rica.

photographer Nick Meek.
commercial shot for Sony.


Li Zheng by Chen Man for Elle China February 2008.


Li Zheng by Chen Man for Elle China February 2008.

Reblogged from everyday magic

The summer I moved to Berkeley, I got a job
selling insurance door-to-door.
I’d walk through the winding lines
of pastel Dollhouses, not knocking, not selling,
just looking at all those families
that were not mine. Living [sic]a those lives [sic]
I’d never have.

In California there are huge grapefruit trees
right in peoples front yards.
For lunch, I picked the fruits off the sidewalk
and carried them to the little Spanish parks
with their rickety, ancient gazebos
and yelling children. I’d sit cross-legged in the grass
and split the pink flesh with my bare hands
devouring it like a heart.

That was the summer I wanted him to marry me so bad
I told everyone he asked when he didn’t.
I’m not saying that’s why I left.
The not saying doesn’t make it
any quieter.

The juice spilled over my hands so carelessly
it felt like betrayal. No one ever yelled at me for stealing.
Some things grow so easily
they demand to be given away.

Reblogged from Clementine von Radics

Proven, France | Dennis Barloga

Reblogged from & somnolence;
Reblogged from three minute hero.
Reblogged from three minute hero.