Henrik Drescher visited a fabric dying factory south of dali( china),this is their dye recipe book.
More pictures here»
Flowers of Abeyance is a series of 11 glass plate photograms produced by the contemporary artist known as Flowerville. These exquisitely beautiful artefacts are a form of cameraless photography, in which the object of attention is exposed directly to the light-sensitive material, without mediation from a focussing device. In the hands of Flowerville, the result is an incredibly pure and intimate portrait of the natural world.
Cliff Strata, (1995), mixed media on canvas, 6’2” x 5’11”.
Ballabile miniato, 2013
stoffa, cartone, legno, cera e tempera
(Illuminated dance 2013
fabric, cardboard, wood, wax and gouache
Chasing Trains, acrylic on routed plywood, 10 3/8″ x 11 3/8″, 2013
The photographs of the series “Anatomy of the Georgian Melancholy” (1993 – 2004) were taken while living in Tskneti, a suburb of Tbilisi where refugees had settled after escaping the war in Abkhazia: at the time, Lado Pochkhua was learning English from a copy of Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.
You collect stickers and shells with your children,
and stamps and postcards,
arrange them devotedly in drawers and boxes,
smiling as your wife calls out
“you’re only creating rubbish,”
not knowing that suddenly a day will come
or rather the night of
when you will be staggering blindly in your underwear
down the wet iron fire-escape.
Tottering away from your home,
with hands as empty as a new-dug grave
and fists black from beating the flames,
you dive beyond the diameter of God’s will,
looking behind you, and they are not there, a distant cry and a profound silence.
Naked and small under the hose that brings you back to life,
while you shove it away,
to die is all you want, to expire under the blanket behind the hedge.
They are dead.
You drag yourself to the rubbish bin where you threw the last rubbish yesterday.
With numb fingers you rummage the stench, there, the green plastic bag of orange peel,
the silver paper from the chocolate you bought coming home from work,
the end of the last salami and the crushed cartons
the children drank their juice from before they went to bed:
all that is left of all of you, of your life where now you’re alone.
You smell them, kiss them, and restore each peel to wholeness,
you gather the chocolate crumbs in the silver paper, the end of the salami
makes you dizzy with its familiar homeliness,
your children’s last saliva is on the drinking-straws.
This green plastic bag of rubbish is all that is yours now.
You need to start again from the beginning, they tell you,
while you would know only how to start from the middle, how to change the old,
make it better, nicer, more loved.
But when the dead are no longer alive
nobody knows how to start from either the end or the beginning.
You know, you know very well, how life is turned into scraps of rubbish,
but not how these scraps of rubbish can be turned into life.
Translated from the Macedonian by Ljubica Arsovska and Peggy Reid