The Franz Kline painting at the Albright Knox was the first one I’d ever seen in person. There may have been others, others I may have walked past in memories of Guggenheims past– but here was the first I ever saw, head to toe in front of me. I walked past this one at first, too, a ghost, because this guy I was with wanted to see the Picasso. This guy, he was something: on the bus I dropped my coffee mug and he picked it up and we got to talking about something or other, something about the philharmonic orchestra or industry or how Buffalo has one but not the other. I told him I was going to walk from the bus stop all the way to the Albright Knox, I had my phone, I was bundled up on an unreasonably chilly day and all set for a forced march, but this guy insisted that I take a train with him. I’d never taken the train here, but ten minutes of hearing him talk about this and that led me to think that I would let him show me.
“I live in a mansion,” he said, looking like someone who had maybe only ever slept on the front steps of one. “Have you ever been to New York? Once I got high with a German in a record store and couldn’t catch a cab until one o’clock in the morning. My uncle—I was meeting my uncle and he was like, Marty, where the hell were you? I just told him the city had gotten to me first.”
 I sat next to him on the train and gaped at him, champing at a piece of gum, ($4.95, Starbucks) and suddenly wished I was the type of person who could make someone like him up. What must it be like to say such bullshit and not worry about it? I pictured myself, dripping with displaced machismo, beard and pipe firmly in place and veins pumping liquor, spinning him into existence at a typewriter in 1930. It must be nice. When we got to the museum he had to pay. He seemed upset about it, but shrugged, letting himself in with a hazy ease, muttering about how he’d never had to pay on a Friday before. He kept going on about a Picasso that was upstairs, and we headed out in search of it. I tripped on my way up the stairs: “Sorry,” I said. “You remind me of Katherine Hepburn,” he said, and nothing else.
He was terrible at looking at the paintings; I could tell at once. I stood back in embarrassment as he squinted at the Warhols, strode past the DeKoonings, asked me who Frida Kahlo was. He walked around the museum and pawed at a guard’s elbow. “Where can I see a Picasso? Where can I see a Picasso?” He spun back, leering at me, saying it must be around here somewhere. The man was deconstructing before my eyes, melting, like if he didn’t get to this Picasso, and then if he didn’t get home and have a drink soon after, he would stop being and become something that wanders around in a museum after hours, just asking—“Where? Where can I?”
The Picasso in question was brown, sad, academic. Early. He sighed at it and crossed his arms. “I just love the colors.”
He left soon after, saying he needed a glass of wine. I promised to design him a business card for his $1 Massage business and shook his hand. I returned upstairs in a daze, making a note in my phone to watch “Bringing Up Baby” as soon as I got home.
And then the Franz Kline. I came upon it in relief, glad that he hadn’t gotten to it first. The Picasso was stained, the Sol Lewitt drawings looked over in confusion– but the Franz Kline was there in all its glory, moody and violent, sad. Tall. I leaned forward as if to kiss it, taking in the heavy marks, and coming to terms with the scale of this thing. I wanted it. I imagined myself waking home with it, heavy in my arms. I supposed I would have to take the train.
On the right side of the Franz Kline is a little medallion of orange. It breaks up the black without breaking it up at all, standing back, quiet and patient. My heart nearly stopped when I saw it, and for a mad second I wanted nothing more than to rip it off the canvas, cradle it in my hands, ask it everything– I wanted to turn to the guards and jump up and down, asking–

“Did you see this? This has been here the whole time, and everyone just walks right past it–”

The Franz Kline painting at the Albright Knox was the first one I’d ever seen in person. There may have been others, others I may have walked past in memories of Guggenheims past– but here was the first I ever saw, head to toe in front of me. I walked past this one at first, too, a ghost, because this guy I was with wanted to see the Picasso. This guy, he was something: on the bus I dropped my coffee mug and he picked it up and we got to talking about something or other, something about the philharmonic orchestra or industry or how Buffalo has one but not the other. I told him I was going to walk from the bus stop all the way to the Albright Knox, I had my phone, I was bundled up on an unreasonably chilly day and all set for a forced march, but this guy insisted that I take a train with him. I’d never taken the train here, but ten minutes of hearing him talk about this and that led me to think that I would let him show me.

“I live in a mansion,” he said, looking like someone who had maybe only ever slept on the front steps of one. “Have you ever been to New York? Once I got high with a German in a record store and couldn’t catch a cab until one o’clock in the morning. My uncle—I was meeting my uncle and he was like, Marty, where the hell were you? I just told him the city had gotten to me first.”


I sat next to him on the train and gaped at him, champing at a piece of gum, ($4.95, Starbucks) and suddenly wished I was the type of person who could make someone like him up. What must it be like to say such bullshit and not worry about it? I pictured myself, dripping with displaced machismo, beard and pipe firmly in place and veins pumping liquor, spinning him into existence at a typewriter in 1930. It must be nice. When we got to the museum he had to pay. He seemed upset about it, but shrugged, letting himself in with a hazy ease, muttering about how he’d never had to pay on a Friday before. He kept going on about a Picasso that was upstairs, and we headed out in search of it. I tripped on my way up the stairs: “Sorry,” I said. “You remind me of Katherine Hepburn,” he said, and nothing else.

He was terrible at looking at the paintings; I could tell at once. I stood back in embarrassment as he squinted at the Warhols, strode past the DeKoonings, asked me who Frida Kahlo was. He walked around the museum and pawed at a guard’s elbow. “Where can I see a Picasso? Where can I see a Picasso?” He spun back, leering at me, saying it must be around here somewhere. The man was deconstructing before my eyes, melting, like if he didn’t get to this Picasso, and then if he didn’t get home and have a drink soon after, he would stop being and become something that wanders around in a museum after hours, just asking—“Where? Where can I?”

The Picasso in question was brown, sad, academic. Early. He sighed at it and crossed his arms. “I just love the colors.”

He left soon after, saying he needed a glass of wine. I promised to design him a business card for his $1 Massage business and shook his hand. I returned upstairs in a daze, making a note in my phone to watch “Bringing Up Baby” as soon as I got home.

And then the Franz Kline. I came upon it in relief, glad that he hadn’t gotten to it first. The Picasso was stained, the Sol Lewitt drawings looked over in confusion– but the Franz Kline was there in all its glory, moody and violent, sad. Tall. I leaned forward as if to kiss it, taking in the heavy marks, and coming to terms with the scale of this thing. I wanted it. I imagined myself waking home with it, heavy in my arms. I supposed I would have to take the train.

On the right side of the Franz Kline is a little medallion of orange. It breaks up the black without breaking it up at all, standing back, quiet and patient. My heart nearly stopped when I saw it, and for a mad second I wanted nothing more than to rip it off the canvas, cradle it in my hands, ask it everything– I wanted to turn to the guards and jump up and down, asking–

“Did you see this? This has been here the whole time, and everyone just walks right past it–”

(Source: thegestianpoet, via thegestianpoet)

jdude000:

OH MY GOD

(Source: best-of-memes, via duckoxymoron)

froganmeeman:

Usually band members enforce their fans to buy their music…then there’s Brendon Urie

froganmeeman:

Usually band members enforce their fans to buy their music…then there’s Brendon Urie

(via redrumtea)

bogleech:

"I heart my car" she says as she pumps its hole full of love fluid, but their half-hearted smiles betray the truth. They’re just going through the motions, each silently wondering which will be the first to admit that the spark is gone.

(via sillyclevergirl)

Quit ruining my life with your perfect face

(Source: ithelpstodream, via jimzuccofromit)

flawlesstitties:

otherbully1:

internetsgreatesthits:

cutebeam:

softboycollective:

postracialcomments:


A Texas man is under arrest after gunning down a SWAT team member as the officer quietly tried to climb in through the apartment’s window during predawn hours.
Police State USAreports  that a resident fatally shot Detective Charles “Chuck” Dinwiddie as the officer climbed in through a ground level window as part of a “no knock” raid. The officers were there due to suspicion that residents were in possession of controlled substances.
Upon hearing a noise, resident Marvin Louis Guy, 50, opened fire on the unidentified officers, shooting three others as well, although only one fatally.
Guy is currently being held on capital murder charges in connection with Dinwiddie’s death, even though it’s unclear how Guy was supposed to know that the men crawling in through the window were police officers since they hadn’t identified themselves.
The evidence sheet lists a laptop, a safe, a pistol, and a glass pipe, but no drugs were found. Given the evidence, why did police deem it necessary to seek a “no knock” warrant and why did a judge sign off on it?
Very little is known about Mr. Guy, but Dinwiddie left behind two children, all because his SWAT team went creeping into a home where the residents didn’t even have any drugs. Is that the best use of law enforcement tax dollars?
Guy’s bond has been set at $3 million dollars.

Source
Thank you lieutenantnorals!

"cop breaks and enters with state approval, gets his ass shot"

brah………………. BRUV……………………..

this happened in Texas where it is perfectly legal to shoot and kill someone who is breaking into your home

Literally everybody knows that in Texas you can open fire on someone who comes onto your property without permission. What in the hell did they expect??

Where the NRA at? In the largest pro-gun state of Texass, those second amendment rights only apply if you’re white.

flawlesstitties:

otherbully1:

internetsgreatesthits:

cutebeam:

softboycollective:

postracialcomments:

A Texas man is under arrest after gunning down a SWAT team member as the officer quietly tried to climb in through the apartment’s window during predawn hours.

Police State USAreports  that a resident fatally shot Detective Charles “Chuck” Dinwiddie as the officer climbed in through a ground level window as part of a “no knock” raid. The officers were there due to suspicion that residents were in possession of controlled substances.

Upon hearing a noise, resident Marvin Louis Guy, 50, opened fire on the unidentified officers, shooting three others as well, although only one fatally.

Guy is currently being held on capital murder charges in connection with Dinwiddie’s death, even though it’s unclear how Guy was supposed to know that the men crawling in through the window were police officers since they hadn’t identified themselves.

The evidence sheet lists a laptop, a safe, a pistol, and a glass pipe, but no drugs were found. Given the evidence, why did police deem it necessary to seek a “no knock” warrant and why did a judge sign off on it?

Very little is known about Mr. Guy, but Dinwiddie left behind two children, all because his SWAT team went creeping into a home where the residents didn’t even have any drugs. Is that the best use of law enforcement tax dollars?

Guy’s bond has been set at $3 million dollars.

Source

Thank you lieutenantnorals!

"cop breaks and enters with state approval, gets his ass shot"

brah………………. BRUV……………………..

this happened in Texas where it is perfectly legal to shoot and kill someone who is breaking into your home

Literally everybody knows that in Texas you can open fire on someone who comes onto your property without permission. What in the hell did they expect??

Where the NRA at? In the largest pro-gun state of Texass, those second amendment rights only apply if you’re white.

(via theafroprincesa)

deanprincesster:

women: being a woman is hard

men: I thikn youre forgetting something: it is also hard to be a man. just letting you know that you forgot to mention that when you were talking about being a woman

(via whoredinarygirl)

ghastlyshit:

theblacksophisticate:

atane:

zuky:

nezua:

Flappers shaming Miley Cyrus.

Oddly enough we could say that Miley Cyrus is following solidly in the appropriative footsteps of white flappers, who in the 1920s grabbed national attention and stirred alarmism concerning the end of civilization because they partied to Black music, wore their hair short like Josephine Baker (who fled US racism to become a superstar in Europe), and imitated dance moves from Baker and other Black dancers. The famously flapperesque Charleston was lifted from the African American dance called the Juba, which had West African roots and was danced in secret in the South and the Caribbean. The dance sped up when it reached Harlem, giving birth to both tap dancing and the Broadway hit called The Charleston, which spread like wildfire from there. White people didn’t sway their hips this scandalously prior to that era, making flappers roughly equivalent to white twerkers of the Jazz Age.

This is 100% true. The period from the jazz age to the beat generation, comparatively speaking was the height of cultural appropriation of black art. The beat generation used lingo popularized by Lester Young. They then appropriated the style, dress, and lingo of bebop musicians like Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie, down to the beret, glasses, and soul patch. Bebop musicians, Parker and Gillespie in particular, were the blueprint of their image. Norman Mailer wrote an essay titled “The White Negro" that tackles this phenomenon. I’m no fan of Norman Mailer, but at least he admitted that white people were stealing from blacks. He wrote it in 1957.
With regards to the flappers, apart from Josephine Baker, they also liberally borrowed from black vaudeville performers. They would copy dance moves from black performers, and then introduce it as their own. Many dances attributed to whites are from black vaudeville performers who were forced to perform on the chitlin’ circuit because of segregation and Jim Crow laws.
It really is astonishing how nothing has changed in this regard. For example, people to this day still call Benny Goodman “the king of swing”, when what he did was procure charts for arrangements from Fletcher Henderson, a black man. Goodman’s biggest hits were from Henderson. It’s amazing how much credit Goodman gets for another man’s work. Of course Goodman became “the king of swing”, while Fletcher Henderson remains a footnote in history. How a white man becomes the king of something innovated by blacks is astounding. Benny Goodman is called “the king of swing”. Paul Whiteman is called “the king of jazz”. Elvis Presley is called “the king of rock n roll”. Is Eminem the king of rap? What about Justin Timberlake and Robin Thicke with r&b? Miley is soon on her way to become “the queen of twerking”.
Anyway, apart from getting his charts from Fletcher Henderson, Benny Goodman got his ass handed to him by Chick Webb at the Savoy Ballroom when they had a battle of the bands. Goodman is often noted as being one of the few white men in the segregation era to have black men in his band, and the narrative is typically presented as if he did it out of benevolence. He did it because there was no way to get around the fact that swing music was the domain of black folks, and he poached the best black players he could find to bolster his band, and black musicians went with him because as a white man, he was able to pay them more than black bandleaders, and they wouldn’t have to deal with indignity while traveling. Many hotels refused black bands, so they often had to sleep in cars, bus terminals, or crash at the homes of hospitable blacks. A big portion of Duke Ellington’s money went towards renting out train cars and making sure his orchestra had a place to sleep while on the road because hotels often turned them down because they were black. These were issues Goodman wasn’t going to face. Black musicians certainly didn’t go with him because he was the best. Goodman even later hired Henderson to arrange and play in his band. He wasn’t doing it because he loved black people. Black people were the ones creating and innovating. Where else would he get the best charts and arrangements? Now that the smoke has cleared and the dust has settled, Goodman gets all the credit. Funny how that works.
This stuff has been going on for a long time. Miley is the 2013 version. Twerking has been around for a long time, but Miley convulses on national tv and all of a sudden, dictionary definitions of twerking are made. Definitions complete with no mention of black people, like all this happened in a vacuum. It’s history repeating itself over and over again. I see the same thing happening with afrobeat music.

The more you know.

*\*\*i just loved reading all the comments.💞💀-psych.

These posts are SO important. White men LOVE to romanticize the past because the past is malleable to them… there is no-one to argue with them that no, in fact, the white man did not create everything of any value throughout the entirety of history. It is OUR JOB to remind them, at every possible opportunity, that they did not and the only way we can do that is by telling the story of people of color and telling the story of women and telling it so often and so loud and in so many places and to so many people that they can not deny it anymore. 

ghastlyshit:

theblacksophisticate:

atane:

zuky:

nezua:

Flappers shaming Miley Cyrus.

Oddly enough we could say that Miley Cyrus is following solidly in the appropriative footsteps of white flappers, who in the 1920s grabbed national attention and stirred alarmism concerning the end of civilization because they partied to Black music, wore their hair short like Josephine Baker (who fled US racism to become a superstar in Europe), and imitated dance moves from Baker and other Black dancers. The famously flapperesque Charleston was lifted from the African American dance called the Juba, which had West African roots and was danced in secret in the South and the Caribbean. The dance sped up when it reached Harlem, giving birth to both tap dancing and the Broadway hit called The Charleston, which spread like wildfire from there. White people didn’t sway their hips this scandalously prior to that era, making flappers roughly equivalent to white twerkers of the Jazz Age.

This is 100% true. The period from the jazz age to the beat generation, comparatively speaking was the height of cultural appropriation of black art. The beat generation used lingo popularized by Lester Young. They then appropriated the style, dress, and lingo of bebop musicians like Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie, down to the beret, glasses, and soul patch. Bebop musicians, Parker and Gillespie in particular, were the blueprint of their image. Norman Mailer wrote an essay titled “The White Negro" that tackles this phenomenon. I’m no fan of Norman Mailer, but at least he admitted that white people were stealing from blacks. He wrote it in 1957.

With regards to the flappers, apart from Josephine Baker, they also liberally borrowed from black vaudeville performers. They would copy dance moves from black performers, and then introduce it as their own. Many dances attributed to whites are from black vaudeville performers who were forced to perform on the chitlin’ circuit because of segregation and Jim Crow laws.

It really is astonishing how nothing has changed in this regard. For example, people to this day still call Benny Goodman “the king of swing”, when what he did was procure charts for arrangements from Fletcher Henderson, a black man. Goodman’s biggest hits were from Henderson. It’s amazing how much credit Goodman gets for another man’s work. Of course Goodman became “the king of swing”, while Fletcher Henderson remains a footnote in history. How a white man becomes the king of something innovated by blacks is astounding. Benny Goodman is called “the king of swing”. Paul Whiteman is called “the king of jazz”. Elvis Presley is called “the king of rock n roll”. Is Eminem the king of rap? What about Justin Timberlake and Robin Thicke with r&b? Miley is soon on her way to become “the queen of twerking”.

Anyway, apart from getting his charts from Fletcher Henderson, Benny Goodman got his ass handed to him by Chick Webb at the Savoy Ballroom when they had a battle of the bands. Goodman is often noted as being one of the few white men in the segregation era to have black men in his band, and the narrative is typically presented as if he did it out of benevolence. He did it because there was no way to get around the fact that swing music was the domain of black folks, and he poached the best black players he could find to bolster his band, and black musicians went with him because as a white man, he was able to pay them more than black bandleaders, and they wouldn’t have to deal with indignity while traveling. Many hotels refused black bands, so they often had to sleep in cars, bus terminals, or crash at the homes of hospitable blacks. A big portion of Duke Ellington’s money went towards renting out train cars and making sure his orchestra had a place to sleep while on the road because hotels often turned them down because they were black. These were issues Goodman wasn’t going to face. Black musicians certainly didn’t go with him because he was the best. Goodman even later hired Henderson to arrange and play in his band. He wasn’t doing it because he loved black people. Black people were the ones creating and innovating. Where else would he get the best charts and arrangements? Now that the smoke has cleared and the dust has settled, Goodman gets all the credit. Funny how that works.

This stuff has been going on for a long time. Miley is the 2013 version. Twerking has been around for a long time, but Miley convulses on national tv and all of a sudden, dictionary definitions of twerking are made. Definitions complete with no mention of black people, like all this happened in a vacuum. It’s history repeating itself over and over again. I see the same thing happening with afrobeat music.

The more you know.

*\*\*i just loved reading all the comments.
💞💀
-psych.

These posts are SO important. White men LOVE to romanticize the past because the past is malleable to them… there is no-one to argue with them that no, in fact, the white man did not create everything of any value throughout the entirety of history. It is OUR JOB to remind them, at every possible opportunity, that they did not and the only way we can do that is by telling the story of people of color and telling the story of women and telling it so often and so loud and in so many places and to so many people that they can not deny it anymore. 

(Source: melanskyyworld, via theafroprincesa)

ashtoniousrex:

backstories to random gifs are my favorite thing and they need to continue

I second this and call it to a vote

(Source: tastefullyoffensive, via wrynny)

shisnojon:

studddmufffin:

jetskelter:

whitefurcia:

vejiga:

Dale a Internet una Imagen




y ellos harán lo peor….

Veo y subo a


tengo una mente muy enferma 


Hahahah wtf

yooooo spanish tumblr turns the fuck UP

shisnojon:

studddmufffin:

jetskelter:

whitefurcia:

vejiga:

Dale a Internet una Imagen

y ellos harán lo peor….

Veo y subo a

tengo una mente muy enferma 

Hahahah wtf

yooooo spanish tumblr turns the fuck UP

(via theafroprincesa)