Published on
Picture



Nothing that lives is, or can be, rigidly perfect; part of it is decaying, part nascent….

And in all things that live there are certain irregularities and deficiencies which are not only signs of life, but sources of beauty….

To banish imperfection is to destroy expression, to check exertion, to paralyse vitality.


John Ruskin, The Stones of Venice, 1851


​

Picture
Published on



These fragments I have shored against my ruins.


T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land, 1922

Published on

You'll stand aside as a great complexity intrudes, tearing apart, piece by piece, all of your carefully conceived denials...

fighting with everything you've got not to face the thing you most dread...

​the creature you truly are... buried in the nameless black of a name.


Mark Z Danielewski, House of Leaves, 2000


​


​cave cartography / 8 exposures taken hourly / 4 days

​
Upon returning from a trip to Seattle, the Navidson family discovers a change in their home. A closet-like space shut behind an undecorated door appears inexplicably where previously there was only a blank wall. A second door appears at the end of the closet, leading to the children's room. As Navidson investigates this phenomenon, he finds that the internal measurements of the house are somehow xlr than external measurements. Initially there is less than an inch of difference, but as time passes the interior of the house seems to expand while maintaining the same exterior proportions. A third and more extreme change asserts itself: a dark, cold hallway opens in an exterior living room wall that should project outside into their yard, but does not. Navidson films the outside of the house to show where the hallway should be but clearly is not. The filming of this anomaly comes to be referred to as "The Five and a Half Minute Hallway". This hallway leads to a maze-like complex, starting with a xl room (the "Anteroom"), which in turn leads to a truly enormous space (the "Great Hall"), a room primarily distinguished by an enormous spiral staircase which appears, when viewed from the landing, to spiral down without end. There is also a multitude of corridors and rooms leading off from each passage. All of these rooms and hallways are completely unlit and featureless, consisting of smooth ash-gray walls, floors, and ceilings. The only sound disturbing the perfect silence of the hallways is a periodic low growl, the source of which is never fully explained, although an academic source “quoted" in the book hypothesizes that the growl is created by the frequent re-shaping of the house.

source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Leaves


cave extractions / ferruginous sediment / exhibits a-c
​

In the end Navidson is left with one page and one match. For a long time he waits in darkness and cold, postponing this final bit of illumination.

​At last though, he grips the match by the neck and after locating the friction strip sparks to life a final ball of light.


First, he reads a few lines by match light and then as the heat bites his fingertips he applies the flame to the page. Here then is one end: a final act of reading, a final act of consumption. And as the fire rapidly devours the paper, Navidson’s eyes frantically sweep down over the text, keeping just ahead of the necessary immolation, until as he reaches the last few words, flames lick around his hands, ash peels off into the surrounding emptiness, and then as the fire retreats, dimming, its light suddenly spent, the book is gone leaving nothing behind but invisible traces already dismantled in the dark.


Mark Z Danielewski, House of Leaves, 2000


​


​

Darkness is impossible to remember. Consequently cavers desire to return to those unseen depths where they have just been.

It is an addiction. No one is ever satisfied. Darkness never satisfies.

Especially if it takes something away which it almost always invariably does.


Mark Z Danielewski, House of Leaves, 2000


​

Published on

a series of images made in the light after 98 hours in the dark.
​


​

Perhaps in the world's destruction it would be possible at last to see how it was made.

Oceans, mountains. The ponderous counterspectacle of things ceasing to be.

The sweeping waste, hydroptic and coldly secular.

The silence.

​

Cormac McCarthy, The Road, 2006



Picture



Look around you. Ever is a long time. 

But the boy knew what he knew.

That ever is no time at all.


Cormac McCarthy, The Road, 2006


​

Published on
Picture



Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.


Sylvia Plath, The Colossus and Other Poems, 1960



Published on


​

Erasure is never merely a matter of making things disappear: there is always some detritus strewn about in the aftermath, some bruising to the surface from which word or image has been removed, some reminder of the violence done to make the world look new again. Whether rubbed away, crossed out or reinscribed, the rejected entity has a habit of returning, ghostlike: if only in the marks that usurp its place and attest to its passing.


Brian Dillon, The Revelation of Erasure, Tate Etc. Issue 8, 2006




​

What the eyes had seen could not be erased. 


​Frank Herbert, Dune Messiah, 1987

Published on
Picture



When sunset, like a crimson throat to hell, is cavernous…


​George Sterling, A Wine of Wizardry, 1908

Published on




Everywhere I looked were pivot-points and fulcrums, symmetries and proliferations: the thorax points of a winged world. Sand mimicked water, water mimicked sand, and the air duplicated the textures of both. Hinged cuckoo-calls; razor shells and cockle shells; our own reflections; a profusion of suns; the glide of transparent over solid. When I think back to the outer miles of that walk, I now recall a strong disorder of perception that caused illusions of the spirit as well as of the eye. I recall thought becoming sensational; the substance of landscape so influencing the mind that mind’s own substance was altered.


Robert Macfarlane, The Old Ways (Silt), 2012

​




There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.


Friedrich Nietzsche, Notebooks, 1869-70

​

​

Picture
The Broomway, the most perilous path in England
Published on


​

According to Greek myth, the artichoke owes its existence to the philandering Zeus who, on a visit to his brother Poseidon, spotted a gorgeous girl, Cynara, bathing on the beach. He fell instantly in love, seduced her, made her a goddess, and took her back with him to Mount Olympus. Cynara, however, lonesome and missing her mother, soon took to sneaking home to visit her family. This duplicitous act so infuriated Zeus that he tossed Cynara from Olympus and turned her into an artichoke. The modern scientific name for artichoke, Cynara Cardunculus, refers.

​





Looking back on months and years of intimacy, to feel that your friend, while you still remember the moving words you exchanged, is yet growing distant and living in a world apart —all this is sadder far than partings brought by death.



Yoshida Kenko, Essays in Idleness: The Tsurezuregusa of Kenko, 1330 - 1332