Photographer Rachel Sussman has been documenting the world’s oldest organisms for a personal project she’s been working on for almost a decade. Now you can see the results of her epic journey around the globe in her upcoming book The Oldest Living Things in the World which you can pre-order here.
About the book:
Since 2004 artist Rachel Sussman has been researching, working with biologists, and traveling all over the world to photograph continuously living organisms 2,000 years old and older. The work spans disciplines, continents, and millennia: it’s part art and part science, has an innate environmentalism, and is driven by existential inquiry. She begins at ‘year zero,’ and looks back from there, photographing the past in the present. Together, her portraits capture the living history of our planet – and what we stand to lose in the future.
Photographer Marianne Kjølner snapped this pair of photographs of a bizarre tree in Denmark. Of the photo she says: “This old pink house is situated at the old dunes, a few hundred meters from the west coast, a very windy place were there isn’t much that can grow. So the tree can only grow where it has shelter.”
I finally talked to my dad today after a long, long time, and was overwhelmed by how simply loving his voice was even though the conversation was short. And just this past week, I’ve just been reminded of how truly grateful for family I am, no matter what has happened in the past and what my family is now and what it will be in the future. I am continually humbled by the abundance of grace I find in unexpected places, the love poured out on me despite how incompetent I am at loving people; just goes to show that I really can’t do it by my own strength, no matter how many times I think I’ve “got it down” or I’m “doing it right”. I am fickle and my emotions are fickle, and it’s crazy how much I allow so much anxiety to arise out of such fickle things, how much I am wiling to feed those fears and push aside—diminish—the faithfulness I’ve already seen in my life and in the lives of those around me. But when I do take the time to reflect on that, I find so much hope in my family, so much joy in what’s in store for each person and for all of us.
(Found objects, used clothes)
Waste, trash, rubbish, objects that lay strewn across streets and sidewalks: these are just as much a (partial) picture of society as are other things. They tell a story of want and then disdain, use and neglect—the story of being lost, being forgotten, replaced in the world’s endless and ever-quickening cycles.
Bloom consists of found objects picked up from the ground that are carefully wrapped in unraveled threads from used clothing. At times the original object is clearly recognizable; at others times there’s only a glimpse of it or none at all, as the objects meld together into new forms, held together in their clusters by the threads that encase them.
Perhaps the whole process speaks to a certain futility: a selfish desire to beautify and to impose meaning that becomes stifling. And yet perhaps, despite that, it also speaks to a certain truth: a very human need to put-together, a desire to find, and a fulfillment in bridging just some of the seemingly fragmented bits of life. Perhaps then, beauty is simply “despite”, a kind of quiet resilience that takes root and lives.
"One day a crazy looking homeless guy came to the door, and we were about to close the door on him, but my mother saw him and shouted: ‘Hey Eugene!’ She knew his name! Then she ran around the kitchen putting all sorts of food into tupperware, and brought it out to him. After he left, we asked my mom why she gave him so much food. She told us: ‘You never know how Jesus is going to look when he shows up.’ She was always saying that— it was a spiritual thing. Then you know what happened? Two months later, that same man showed up on the door step, clean shaven, and wearing a suit. And he had an envelope with money for my mother. ‘Ms. Rosa always believed in me,’ he said. I’ll never forget it! Eugene was his name."
that is a very fluffy baby deer it is so fluffy i almost did not know what it was i am gonna cry
I love plane rides; they are honestly one of my favorite things to “do.” As we were up in the air today, I was thinking again: why is it that I like being on public transportation so much and for so long? Why is it that, when I have time and don’t need to be somewhere, I’d rather take the longer route home than the quickest one? I do enjoy driving, and driving aimlessly, but it’s not quite the same. I like thinking while in transit—and I think more clearly—more so than when I’m quietly sitting alone somewhere by myself.
Maybe there isn’t a reason and I’m dwelling on it too much. But part of it, I think, is that the time of being on public transportation—the bus, train, subway, plane—is one of the only times during which I am able to relinquish control. Even when I am by myself at home, there’s always the option of doing something else, of being “productive”, instead of taking that often much needed time to simply be still and quiet. But once I’ve stepped onto a train, or a plane, I know that for that distance or period of time, I have given up some control; I cannot rush off to somewhere else. In a time when everything is fast; when everything is about “efficiency” and “production”, we are really lacking in peace and rest and reflection, which is a sad thought. Perhaps that’s why I look forward to getting on the subway everyday, or to sitting on the plane for long hours. It’s tiring to have to be in control all the time. Which makes me wonder, why do I still refuse so many times then, to give up all the parts of my life to God? And what does that mean, to give it all up?
Anyway, it’s been awhile since I’ve been on a plane, and it was refreshing; I was reminded of why plane rides are one of my favorite things when I opened the window and looked down at the clouds. I think that’s one of those scenes I could look at for hours and not look away from. They are beautiful, a blinding brightness that makes the white inside the cabin look dim in comparison. And to me, they are a reminder of the Lord’s glory. Looking down and seeing them pass by slowly above the ground so peacefully, I think I could feel a bit of how much He loves the world and His creation, how much He wants us to see what He sees; it was such a joyful thing!
That is not a record - that is a cross-section of a fucking tree. And it sounds like this.
I feel like crying
ive been laughing at this for about 20 minutes because
i fucking hate this website
its 3am and there are tears streaming down my face because of this