manuel cristaldi photography
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Please don't take my photos without asking my permission.
inneroptics:

Franz Falckenhaus; 2012, Assemblage / Collage 
greeneyes55:

Dorian Leight photographed by her sister 1954
Photo: Suzy Parker
artemisdreaming:

Psyché, 4e quart 19e siècle ; 1er quart 20e siècle, Musée Rodin
Auguste Rodin 
toshiro-mifune:

Samurai Rebellion (Masaki Kobayashi - 1968)
inneroptics:

Sylvia Plath R.I.P
I have done it again.One year in every tenI manage it–
A sort of walking miracle, my skinBright as a Nazi lampshade,My right foot
A paperweight,My face featureless, fineJew linen.
Peel off the napkinO my enemy.Do I terrify?–
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?The sour breathWill vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the fleshThe grave cave ate will beAt home on me
And I a smiling woman.I am only thirty.And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.What a trashTo annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.The peanut-crunching crowdShoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot–The big strip tease.Gentlemen, ladies
These are my handsMy knees.I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.The first time it happened I was ten.It was an accident.
The second time I meantTo last it out and not come back at all.I rocked shut
As a seashell.They had to call and callAnd pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
DyingIs an art, like everything else.I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.I do it so it feels real.I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad dayTo the same place, the same face, the same bruteAmused shout:
‘A miracle!’That knocks me out.There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a chargeFor the hearing of my heart–It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large chargeFor a word or a touchOr a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.So, so, Herr Doktor.So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,I am your valuable,The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.I turn and burn.Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash–You poke and stir.Flesh, bone, there is nothing there–
A cake of soap,A wedding ring,A gold filling.
Herr god, Herr LuciferBewareBeware.
Out of the ashI rise with my red hairAnd I eat men like air.
– Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus
inneroptics:

Giacometti in Paris, 1962-robert frank
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