Commonplacing

8 links and a poem:

When I co-curated an exhibition on camouflage at the museum, I had hoped we could have cuttlefish be a part of it and we succeeded in having a handful from birth to the end of their life (they live only about a year, strangely. Luckily we had a science technician who was fantastic at keeping them healthy and happy). I’ll never forget how beautiful those creatures were to watch—when it was stressful (read: every day), I would go to watch them and take a deep breath. I could never quite get over their fluid ability to shift colors—what looks like shadows are their own bodies creating shadows across their skin in bands. So I loved reading this article on early illustrations and a love for cephalopods.

Absolutely loved this short film on Indigenous throat singing in Kangirsuk.

Did you know there is a cloud appreciation society? Beautiful.

I wish I could buy this antique party book.

I have bought several antique daguerreotypes, adopting the sitters as distant ancestors. So I loved reading this article on falling in love with these ghostly, otherworldy first photographs.

This pitch-perfect explanation from your friend who loves camping, when you never have before (ha!)

Love this beauty of an image from nineteenth-century Japan on creating shadow-puppets.

The problems with the cult of being confident (very relateable, cringey, and validating as someone who was told to be more confident at work and found it inherently problematic cos-play).

And a poem from the lovely Maggie Smith:

First Fall

I'm your guide here. In the evening-dark
morning streets, I point and name.
Look, the sycamores, their mottled,
paint-by-number bark. Look, the leaves
rusting and crisping at the edges. 
I walk through Schiller Park with you
on my chest. Stars smolder well 
into daylight. Look, the pond, the ducks,
the dogs paddling after their prized sticks.
Fall is when the only things you know
because I've named them
begin to end. Soon I'll have another
season to offer you: frost soft
on the window and a porthole
sighed there, ice sleeving the bare
gray branches. The first time you see
something die, you won't know it might 
come back. I'm desperate for you
to love the world because I brought you here.