likeafieldmouse:

Zhang Xiangxi

“A series of hollowed-out television sets frame beguiling scenes imagined in Xiangxi’s works, begun while studying sculpture at the Guangzhou Academy of Fine Art.

Situated in a small creative community in Hei Qiao Cun on the northeastern edge of the city, his studio is littered with second-hand appliances like washing machines, which become the sites of miniature worlds inspired by locations such as his old workspace in Guangzhou, the workers’ dormitory he once lived in, his parent’s sitting room, the interior of a train carriage—even his dream home. They are replicas rendered faithfully, but playfully, often using the cement, brick, glass, stone or paper materials found in their life-sized equivalents.”

(via fostervatten)

I align myself with people who support my growth. If you meet someone whose soul is not aligned with yours, send them love and move along.
Dr. Wayne Dyer (via acidskully)

(via afterhoursthrills)

I think too much. I think ahead. I think behind. I think sideways. I think it all. If it exists, I’ve fucking thought of it.
Winona Ryder (via arpeggia)

(via afterhoursthrills)

martinekenblog:

Innes McDougall is an artist based in Scotland working out of Glasgow

(via designthinkingcahier)

soulist-aurora:

In The Mood For Love

soulist-aurora:

In The Mood For Love

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken.
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin. (via une-quaintrelle)

(via une-quaintrelle)