Alexey Titarenko, City of Shadows, (1992-1994)
Inspiration lies everywhere. In fact, it can even be found in the darkest of times. For Alexey Titarenko, that time came when the Soviet Union collapsed. “In the winter of 1991-1992, one cold and gloomy day, I strolled sadly down a street which used to be packed with people, which used to be full of joyful vibrancy and dynamism,” shares Titarenko. “I saw people on the verge of insanity, in confusion: They looked like shadows, undernourished and worn out.”
While waiting outside a subway station, Titarenko noticed how a crowd of people evolved in front of his very eyes. With the belief that he could make time stand still by changing the camera’s shutter speed, he created this interesting set of photos. He called the series City of Shadows.
white masculinity is so garbage they count moisturising their skin as feminine
NOT A JOKE: Photos from Personhood for Women
Also, check out National Advocates for Pregnant Women, org that stands up for the rights of women (often the ones with the least means), debunks bad science and challenges religious extremists influencing laws in courts.
People be calling cars and ships and America “she” but when a trans women asks for female pronouns people be like no
Particolare by Graziano Locatelli
At the bottom of Central Dogma.
Post racial Amerikkka
I’m so disgusted.
white people are ghouls
He is taking a course on Marxist ideology.
He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.”
His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen,
He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents,
Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face
Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background.
The matte finish is fucking gorgeous.
He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars
To teach him that the system is unfair.
He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves.
What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV
Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch.
Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open
So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest.
What you can’t tell from Harvard square,
Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once,
It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs.
Tear gas is such a benign term for it,
If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience.
What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble,
Is that when they rush you, survival is to run,
I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me.
I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet…
We still do it.
I inherited my communist manifesto,
It has no cover—
Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote”
The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment,
Looking for subversive propaganda.
She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages,
Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read,
They never found it.
So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber,
For wanting her children to have a better life than she did,
Don’t talk to me about revolution.
I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that.
The price of uprise is paid in blood,
And not Harvard blood.
The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago,
The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic.
It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library.
It is easy to offer flesh to the cause,
When it is not yours to give.