Zbigniew Rybczyński. Tango, 1981.

More here and here.

Thanks to Ryan Moritz.

“Toni Morrison has always taken for granted the centrality of Blackness in her novels. She has refused throughout her writing career to privilege “Whiteness” in her literary works. In this clip, Toni Morrison discusses the way she felt when interview Bill Moyers asked her when she would write about white people, as if this was something she should be interested in doing. She refuses to accept the idea that writing about Black people is not “real writing,” and that Black writers must engage with White characters or the White world in order for their writing to be legitimate. She will not privilege White people, nor will she explain things to White readers.”

More here. (Note: One post throughout February will be dedicated to Black History Month.)

Miles Dewey Davis III (May 26, 1926 September 28, 1991) was an American jazz trumpeter, bandleader, and composer. Widely considered one of the most influential musicians of the 20th century, Davis was at the forefront of almost every major development in jazz from World War II to the 1990s: he played on various early bebop records and recorded one of the first cool jazz records; he was partially responsible for the development of hard bop and modal jazz, and both jazz-funk and jazz fusion arose from his work with other musicians in the late 1960s and early 1970s; and his final album blended jazz and rap. Many leading jazz musicians made their names in Davis's groups, including pianist Herbie Hancock, saxophonist John Coltrane, saxophonist Kenny Garrett, and guitarist John McLaughlin. As a trumpeter, Davis had a pure, round sound but also an unusual freedom of articulation and pitch. He was known for favoring a low register and relatively sparse playing that served the song rather than display flashy playing, but Davis was also capable of highly complex and technically demanding trumpet work.

More here. (Note: One post throughout February will be dedicated to Black History Month.)

The Nobodies

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down on them–will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn’t rain down yesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck doesn’t even fall in a fine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if their left hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their right foot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.

The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: the no ones, the
nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed every which way.