Sketchbook dump from instagram
Eliza Bennett - A woman’s work is never done, 2011
Using my own hand as a base material, I considered it a canvas upon which I stitched into the top layer of skin using thread to create the appearance of an incredibly work worn hand. By using the technique of embroidery, traditionally employed to represent femininity and applying it to the expression of it’s opposite, I hope to challenge the pre-conceived notion that ‘women’s work’ is light and easy. Aiming to represent the effects of hard work arising from employment in low paid ancillary jobs such as cleaning, caring, and catering, all traditionally considered to be ‘women’s work’.
50% of my jokes are self deprecating and 50% are self congratulatory like i’ll say “wow its hot in here…. just like me” and 5 seconds later point at a trash can and say “me”
"How often", she asked me the night before
“Do you think it’s okay to fall apart?”
We live in a “break it, you pay” kind of culture
A handle falls off of
A coffee mug and suddenly- the entire thing is useless. We lean to sweep evidence beneath the rug, throw broken pieces into a paper bag and never think about them again.
The Japanese knew another way. They mended their broken vases with gold, aggrandized the sharp corners and turned shards of broken pottery into basins that hold light
But here, there’s no room for mistakes.
We give up so easily- on broken toys, snapped piano legs, on each other- and we make believe that even out tongues are bulletproof, as if we are stronger than what these fragile bones can take.
We don’t forgive our broken bowls. We don’t learn to piece them back together. We trip over our own skeletons.
And sweep them back beneath our skin; collect the splattering of our sorrows and flush them down the toilet like
Secrets. Were so ashamed of that which fumbles and falls through our fingers that we forget that
There’s another way; another way instead of going through our days buying coffee at five A.M. And fucking above the covers while rattling and spilling over, our insides bleeding from all the damn glass.
We were never taught that
By the end our lives, we didn’t have to be made of a hundred million cracks. We were never taught that we could have it differently, that we could piece ourselves back together with light,
That our bodies could burn from the inside out.
my problem is my mamma raised me far too nice
to ever wish death on somebody, regardless of how much
they’d harmed me so instead i’m compiling a list
of odd karmatic punishments
for the assholes of my existence like
i hope the girl who ruined my senior year of high school
by bullying the hope out of my bones
has a bad hair day on every first date. i hope
the words she said behind my back tangle around
her head so when people meet her for the first time
they can see how unkind
she really is.
my mother and my father were talking in public
and a policeman asked her if she wanted the
‘dirty hispanic’ to leave her alone
and i really hope that policeman goes home
to heat that never works properly and that
the cold makes his bones ache, i hope the
warmth of my daddy’s sun never kisses
the sweaty temples of men who use their
position of power as an excuse to be racist
the man who hit me until i bled from the
corners of my mouth and who kissed me no matter
how much i asked him to stop better constantly get
his dick stuck in his zipper and i hope a large rash
develops because of it because maybe being
in constant pain will make him learn
i want the teacher who told my friend joe
‘you can’t be a boy just because you say so’
to spill overheated 99-cent coffee on her ironed skirt
every other thursday, i hope it stains because
her words never washed out of his ears either
i hope the boy who broke my heart is
doing well, because i’m doing well too, but i want
the boy who broke my sister by promising forever
when he really meant ‘just until you give me everything’
to get a tattoo with a misspelling
just because i think it would be funny
since he was so afraid of commitment
the man who told my friend to kill herself, to just get it over
should wake up to a leak in his roof
that has no particular origin and constantly drips
onto his face no matter where he moves his pillow to
because maybe then he’ll have some idea about
i hope the people who told my brother
he couldn’t succeed
solely based on his disability
constantly hit their heads when getting into the car,
i want them to blink back little black dots
and wonder what they’ve ever done wrong to deserve
this and then i want them to see my brother’s company
on a full-page spread because he’s twenty-four and
making more money than they ever did
my math teacher told me most girls are stupid
with numbers and i hope his wife is funneling large
sums of his money into an offshore account without
him noticing while my english teacher told me
he didn’t expect much because i’m not a native speaker
so i really hope in class one day
he unknowingly passes out one of my poems
and i hope if you’ve been hurt, your life has
turned around. keep your head up,
square your shoulders, trust that
the universe will find some way to sort things out. hold on
until your heart mends. regardless of what happens,
know that happiness
is the best revenge.
"Modest yet bold, liberal and fun-loving."
Naming Uruguay the country of the year in 2013, the Economist may very well have described the rising nation’s head of state, President José “Pepe” Mujica.
Known for his unusual frankness, fiery oration and bold leadership to turn ideas into action, the 78-year-old leader possesses and practices the very characteristics that many world leaders fail to emulate. He has also garnered international acclaim for his progressive policies, down-to-earth personality and simple presentation, which has earned him a reputation as “the world’s poorest president.”