renaissancemadonna:

Unusual deaths - Antiquity

  • c. 620 BC: Draco, Athenian law-maker, was smothered to death by gifts of cloaks showered upon him by appreciative citizens at a theatre on Aegina.
  • 455 BC: Aeschylus, the great Athenian author of tragedies. Valerius Maximus wrote that he was killed by a tortoise dropped by an eagle that had mistaken his head for a rock suitable for shattering the shell of the reptile. Pliny, in his Naturalis Historiæ, adds that Aeschylus had been staying outdoors to avert a prophecy that he would be killed by a falling object.
  • 210 BC: Qin Shi Huang, the first Emperor of China, died after ingesting several pills of mercury in the belief that it would grant him eternal life.
  • 162 BC: Eleazar Maccabeus was crushed to death at the Battle of Beth Zechariah by a war elephant that he believed to be carrying Seleucid King Antiochus V. Charging into battle, Eleazar rushed underneath the elephant and thrust a spear into its belly, whereupon it fell dead on top of him.
  • 258: According to tradition, Saint Lawrence of Rome was roasted alive on a giant grill, during the persecution of Valerian.
  • 336: Arius, presbyter of Alexandria, is said to have died of sudden diarrhea followed by copious hemorrhaging and anal expulsion of the intestines while he walked across the imperial forum in Constantinople. He may have been poisoned.
  • 415: Hypatia of Alexandria, Greek mathematician, philosopher and intellectual, often called the last librarian of the Library of Alexandria, though it was destroyed long before her time, was murdered by a Christian mob that ripped off her skin with sharp seashells. Various types of shells have been named, including clams, oysters and abalones. Other sources claim tiles or pottery shards were used.

(source)

artchipel:

Jo In Hyuk (South Korea)

Using the simplicity of finely-traced lines and solid colour palettes, South Korean artist and art director Jo In Hyuk explores a range of emotional states with striking portrait illustrations that are as beautiful as they are thoughtful.

Jo’s digital work revolves around the values of youth, sexuality and vulnerability – complex themes that he approaches with awe-inspiring ease, as he represents suffering and grief with a quiet, heavy and almost disturbing dramatic feel. The level of the emotion within Jo’s work is made all the more mesmerising by the deep and enigmatic expressions of the subjects he paints, that one cannot help but feel connected to and struck by.

Although his pastel-coloured illustrations immerse the viewer within dream-like narratives, they are also convincing takes on the raw and real emotions, secrets and states of mind that we hide away from the world – characteristics which ultimately lend his work a particularly magical appeal.

With their fragility and finesse, Jo’s illustrations are subtle echoes of sadness, nostalgia and pain and appear incredibly discreet; yet, beneath their soft appearance, they also contain powerful messages that each of us could identify with and that won’t fail to stun the unsuspecting viewer. Jo speaks with clarity and confidence through his illustrations which, even if developed around more mature themes, always remain innocent and deeply touching.

Our sincere thanks to Abbie Cohen from NeverLazy Magazine for this Art review for Artchipel’s Art Writer’s Wednesday #19.

[more Jo In Hyuk | Art Writer’s Wednesday with Abbie Cohen]

tamburina:

People getting on the Third Avenue elevated train (El) on the East Side of Manhattan, 1951, by Esther Bubley

archiekennedy:

it’s officially illegal to kill off female characters just to generate manpain and motivate the hero sorry i don’t make the rules

Orphan 99: After Brooklyn’s 99th precinct loses one of its best detectives, Elizabeth Childs, a British rebel named Sarah Manning joins the team, eventually revealing all the trippy details about her clone fiasco and trusting her co-workers as valuable allies.

David Foster Wallace, from “Good Old Neon,” Oblivion

The truth is you already know what it’s like. You already know the difference between the size and speed of everything that flashes through you and the tiny inadequate bit of it all you can ever let anyone know. As though inside you is this enormous room full of what seems like everything in the whole universe at one time or another and yet the only parts that get out have to somehow squeeze out through one of those tiny keyholes you see under the knob in older doors. As if we are all trying to see each other through these tiny keyholes.

But it does have a knob, the door can open. But not in the way you think. But what if it could? Think for a second — what if all the infinitely dense and shifting worlds of stuff inside you every moment of your life turned out now to be somehow fully open and expressible afterward, after what you think of as you has died, because what if afterward now each moment itself is an infinite sea or span or passage of time in which to express it or convey it, and you don’t even need any organized English, you can as they say open the door and be in anyone else’s room in all your own multiform forms and ideas and facets? Because listen — we don’t have much time, here’s where Lilly Cache slops slightly down and the banks start getting steep, and you can just make out the outlines of the unlit sign for the farmstand that’s never open anymore, the last sign before the bridge — so listen: What exactly do you think you are? The millions and trillions of thoughts, memories, juxtapositions — even crazy ones like this, you’re thinking — that flash through your head and disappear? Some sum or remainder of these? Your history? Do you know how long it’s been since I told you I was a fraud? Do you remember you were looking at the Respicem watch hanging from the rearview mirror and seeing the time, 9:17? What are you looking at right now? Coincidence? What if no time has passed at all? The truth is you’ve already heard this. That this is what it’s like. That it’s what makes room for the universes inside you, all the endless inbent fractals of connection and symphonies of different voices, the infinities you can never show another soul. And you think it makes you a fraud, the tiny fraction anyone else ever sees? of course you’re a fraud, and of course you try to manage what part they see if you know it’s only a part. Who wouldn’t? It’s called free will, Sherlock. But a the same time it’s why it feels so good to break down and cry in front of others, or to laugh, or to speak in tongues, or chant in Bengali — it’s not English anymore, it’s not getting squeezed through any hole.

Sophie Turner for YOU Mag