Since the holiday toy drive post is circulating again, I figured this would also be helpful! Food insecurity is such a massive problem in America, in general, and if you have the means to help feed others, I think you should take that opportunity. Here are some other tips:
1. If you’re planning on donating items from your own pantry, please check the expiration dates on the packaging. Think of your donations as gifts to bestow, not castoffs to be rid of. It’s awful to think of people feeling like they got scraps someone else just didn’t want. Everyone deserves dignity with their meals.
2. If you’d rather give money to a food bank, that’s also great since they buy food in bulk and know what items are most wanted/needed!
3. Not everyone has access to appliances like stoves or microwaves or hot plates so if you can donate items that don’t need to be heated up, that would also be greatly appreciated!
A painting conservator and a chemist at the Getty Center in Los Angeles may have cracked a mystery contained in the pigment of one of Vincent van Gogh’s most famous works, produced during a fraught moment at the end of his life.
The flowers in van Gogh’s “Irises” (1889), which was the most expensive painting sold at auction at the time when it fetched $53.9 million at Sotheby’s in 1987, were never supposed to be blue, they concluded.
The Dutch painter was living in a psychiatric institution in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence in southern France after he severed his own left ear. Van Gogh had long suffered from hallucinations and depression, which have been retrospectively attributed to a number of theorized ailments including epilepsy, bipolar disorder, and psychosis. While a patient at the clinic, he was permitted to paint, completing 150 works during his one-year stay, including outdoors, where he captured scenes of the psychiatric facility’s garden, which still exists today.
Irises at the psychiatric hospital in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence (photo courtesy Devi Ormond)
Getty Museum Associate Paintings Conservator Devi Ormond and Getty Conservation Institute Research Chemist Catherine Patterson’s investigative journey into “Irises” was sparked by a letter van Gogh addressed to his brother Theo during his stay in which the artist said he was painting violet flowers.
In an interview with Hyperallergic, Ormond and Patterson said that while they had known about the letter for “many years,” confirming that the flowers had once been a hue of purple required removing the popular work from public display. When the pandemic hit, Patterson was finally able to undertake a technical analysis of the painting.
Digital color reconstruction of the original painting (right)
What the research team discovered, Ormond and Patterson said, was that van Gogh achieved a violet color by mixing blue with a red pigment called “Geranium Lake,” which is particularly sensitive to light and fades under chronic exposure.
“That’s why, currently, the irises appear blue, because that red component has faded,” Ormond explained.
From a chemical perspective, Patterson said, the red paint contained bromine, which broke down over time but remained in the paint. Patterson used a non-invasive technique called macro X-ray fluorescence (MAXRF) to identify bromine in the painting.
Side-by-side comparison of original “Irises” and a digital color reconstruction at the Getty
The pair curated an exhibition, Ultra-Violet: New Light on Van Gogh’s Irises, now on view at the Getty Center through January 19. The show presents their research and includes a reconstructed purple representation of the famous work. “A painting we thought we knew so well has suddenly become quite unfamiliar,” reads the exhibition text.
Ormond and Patterson said that the show gives visitors a chance to experience the painting in its intended hue.
“We’ve noticed, in the gallery, that people say [the purple] makes the image feel more three-dimensional,” Patterson said. “They can really feel that it looks like a real patch of flowers in a way they didn’t even realize.”
XRF image of the painting
The fact that van Gogh painted the flowers in violet instead of blue makes sense, Ormond said, given the artist’s conception of color theory. Van Gogh paired opposite hues on the color wheel with one another, first testing pairings with yarn to avoid wasting paint. Purple and green are “opposite-ish” on the color wheel, Ormond noted, whereas blue and green are neighbors and do not enhance one another to the same extent. The curators also visited the still-standing Saint-Rémy-de-Provence hospital, observing violet irises in the gardens.
Beyond a mere scientific discovery, Ormond and Patterson say their investigation into the painting shed light on an early instance of therapeutic artmaking. The clinic’s current director has implemented an art therapy program in the present-day facility, Patterson said.
An image taken during a 2021 MAXRF scanning of Vincent van Gogh’s “Irises”
“There’s an echo of what van Gogh experienced,” Patterson said. “The specialness of the treatment he was allowed to receive that at least provided him solace, if not a cure … and the tradition continues in that very special space today.”
Patterson said the project has reminded her of why she chose her profession.
“It makes you remember why it matters to connect with these artists: They were people with histories and lives and continue to affect the lives of people today,” Patterson said.
Getty Conservation Institute chemist Catherine Patterson looking at the painting through a microscope in 2020
Related: at a neuroscience conference I was at once there was a talk on how the “microslippages” against your fingertip when you lightly pinch something are generally enough for you to work out exactly how much force to grip it with to lift it without crushing it or dropping it.
[ID/A tweet by Cliff 🦖 [dinosaur emoji] Jerrison (@ pervocracy) saying “one of the most amazing things a human brain can do is when you shake an opaque bottle and get an idea of how full it is by how the weight shifts. there’s got to be incredible math going on under the hood there” /End ID]
What about tosses? What about catching? THATS some serious math right there too
Theres a post somewhere about how the human brain is just constantly doing advanced calculus, even if we dont understand the math, we are still very good at consepsualizing it
I was thinking earlier that I find autumn gardening a lot more soothing than spring or summer gardening. Fewer things happen, there’s no urgency, you’re no longer pressed by strict tomato schedules. In the spring I plant vegetables (daily maintenance, many opportunities for mistakes), in autumn I get rid of broom (there’s no wrong way to kill broom) and plant trees (a finite task.) Trees have independent spirits, you plant them and do your best to put them in good conditions and then you’re free; but carrots have needs. Vegetables need sisyphean amounts of weeding and watering—not too much but not too little—, I’ve got to check leaf colour to see if I’m doing something wrong (with tomatoes the answer is yes), they get mildewy, they get attacked by insects, they need protection from chickens (it’s easier to protect a tree from deer than a courgette plant from hens) and frequent tiny haircuts and sponge baths like royal wives. Things can go wrong with baby trees too but they don’t expect you to worry about them every day, they’re doing their thing, you’re doing your thing.
Also planting trees & the large-scale weeding I do in autumn can be done cleanly if I’m careful, but even with gloves I find it impossible to plant & weed a vegetable garden without getting my hands dirty. At some point or other you just have to touch dirt. When you choose to live a rural life everyone assumes you must enjoy touching dirt with your hands but I do not. It’s not a texture thing or a germ thing, it’s just that having dirty hands places an obstacle between me and my books. I didn’t like to make sandcastles on the beach as a kid for this reason, I’ve always been reluctant to touch things that might cling to my skin, like soil or wet sand, because now there’s a wall of glass called rinse your hands between me and the book I carry on my person. This creates a nagging psychological discomfort.
I read a book by a woman gardener last spring in which she says she wouldn’t even mind getting no harvest because she feels soothed by the very act of gardening, and I felt bad for gardening in a utilitarian, result-oriented way and not having attained her higher stage of soul development, but in autumn I get it. It’s nice to clear an area of brambles and plant a tree and then sit down to read for a bit next to this quiet and friendly entity you planted that doesn’t need anything from you in the immediate future. I could do this with no expectations. I have a very different relationship with my spring carrots but that’s okay, I’ve decided I’m an autumn gardener and now that I’m in a category I feel secure.
Please read this man’s description of his dachshund and its most annoying habit
“I have a ridiculous dog named Walnut. He is as domesticated as a beast can be: a purebred longhaired miniature dachshund with fur so thick it feels rich and creamy, like pudding. His tail is a huge spreading golden fan, a clutch of sunbeams. He looks less like a dog than like a tropical fish. People see him and gasp. Sometimes I tell Walnut right out loud that he is my precious little teddy bear pudding cup sweet boy snuggle-stinker.
In my daily life, Walnut is omnipresent. He shadows me all over the house. When I sit, he gallops up into my lap. When I go to bed, he stretches out his long warm body against my body or he tucks himself under my chin like a soft violin. Walnut is so relentlessly present that sometimes, paradoxically, he disappears. If I am stressed or tired, I can go a whole day without noticing him. I will pet him idly; I will yell at him absent-mindedly for barking at the mailman; I will nuzzle him with my foot. But I will not really see him. He will ask for my attention, but I will have no attention to give. Humans are notorious for this: for our ability to become blind to our surroundings — even a fluffy little jewel of a mammal like Walnut.
…
When I come home from a trip, Walnut gets very excited. He prances and hops and barks and sniffs me at the door. And the consciousnesses of all the wild creatures I’ve seen — the puffins, rhinos, manatees, ferrets, the weird hairy wet horses — come to life for me inside of my domestic dog. He is, suddenly, one of these unfamiliar animals. I can pet him with my full attention, with a full union of our two attentions. He is new to me and I am new to him. We are new again together.
Even when he is horrible. The most annoying thing Walnut does, even worse than barking at the mailman, is the ritual of his “evening drink.” Every night, when I am settled in bed, when I am on the brink of sleep, Walnut will suddenly get very thirsty. If I go to bed at 10:30, Walnut will get thirsty at 11. If I go to bed at midnight, he’ll wake me up at 1. I’ve found that the only way I cannot be mad about this is to treat this ritual as its own special kind of voyage — to try to experience it as if for the first time. If I am open to it, my upstairs hallway contains an astonishing amount of life.
The evening drink goes something like this: First, Walnut will stand on the edge of the bed, in a muscular, stout little stance, and he will wave his big ridiculous fan tail in my face, creating enough of a breeze that I can’t ignore it. I will roll over and try to go back to sleep, but he won’t let me: He’ll stamp his hairy front paws and wag harder, then add expressive noises from his snout — half-whine, half-breath, hardly audible except to me. And so I give up. I sit up and pivot and plant my feet on the floor — I am hardly even awake yet — and I make a little basket of my arms, like a running back preparing to take a handoff, and Walnut pops his body right into that pocket, entrusting the long length of his vulnerable spine (a hazard of the dachshund breed) to the stretch of my right arm, and then he hangs his furry front legs over my left. From this point on we function as a unit, a fusion of man and dog. As I lift my weight from the bed Walnut does a little hop, just to help me with gravity, and we set off down the narrow hall. We are Odysseus on the wine-dark sea. (Walnut is Odysseus; I am the ship.)
All of evolution, all of the births and deaths since caveman times, since wolf times, that produced my ancestors and his — all the firelight and sneak attacks and tenderly offered scraps of meat, the cages and houses, the secret stretchy coils of German DNA — it has all come, finally, to this: a fully grown exhausted human man, a tiny panting goofy harmless dog, walking down the hall together. Even in the dark, Walnut will tilt his snout up at me, throw me a deep happy look from his big black eyes — I can feel this happening even when I can’t see it — and he will snuffle the air until I say nice words to him (OK you fuzzy stinker, let’s go get your evening drink), and then, always, I will lower my face and he will lick my nose, and his breath is so bad, his fetid snout-wind, it smells like a scoop of the primordial soup. It is not good in any way. And yet I love it.
Walnut and I move down the hall together, step by bipedal step, one two three four, tired man and thirsty friend, and together we pass the wildlife of the hallway — a moth, a spider on the ceiling, both of which my children will yell at me later to move outside, and of course each of these creatures could be its own voyage, its own portal to millions of years of history, but we can’t stop to study them now; we are passing my son’s room. We can hear him murmuring words to his friends in a voice that sounds disturbingly like my own voice, deep sound waves rumbling over deep mammalian cords — and now we are passing my daughter’s room, my sweet nearly grown-up girl, who was so tiny when we brought Walnut home, as a golden puppy, but now she is moving off to college. In her room she has a hamster she calls Acorn, another consciousness, another portal to millions of years, to ancient ancestors in China, nighttime scampering over deserts.
But we move on. Behind us, in the hallway, comes a sudden galumphing. It is yet another animal: our other dog, Pistachio, he is getting up to see what’s happening; he was sleeping, too, but now he is following us. Pistachio is the opposite of Walnut, a huge mutt we adopted from a shelter, a gangly scraggly garbage muppet, his body welded together out of old mops and sandpaper, with legs like stilts and an enormous block head and a tail so long that when he whips it in joy, constantly, he beats himself in the face. Pistachio unfolds himself from his sleepy curl, stands, trots, huffs and stares after us with big human eyes. Walnut ignores him, because with every step he is sniffing the dark air ahead of us, like a car probing a night road with headlights, and he knows we are approaching his water dish now, he knows I am about to bend my body in half to set his four paws simultaneously down on the floor, he knows that he will slap the cool water with his tongue for 15 seconds before I pick him up again and we journey back down the hall. And I find myself wondering, although of course it doesn’t matter, if Walnut was even thirsty, or if we are just playing out a mutual script. Or maybe, and who could blame him, he just felt like taking a trip.”
I hate hate HATE all those 2edgy 4me theories about kids shows. Like Angelica dreaming up the rugrats, or the ed, edd, and eddy children being ghosts, or literally anything that takes a lighthearted and fun kids show and has to turn it into some tragic take of rape or murder or misinformed mental illness.
So you know what? From now on I’m gonna do the exact opposite. Every cool grim-dark show is now because of a bunch of children. To get us started:
Game of Thrones: A middle-school DnD campaign with the most angry, vindictive DM who has promised to kill everyone’s player characters (and their family) by the end.
The Walking Dead is actually a bunch of kids playing zombie apocalypse in their neighborhood and every time someone “dies,” it’s because their parents called them home for supper.
Breaking Bad is actually just a fanfic the students in Mr. White’s class write about him because no one has any idea what he does with his free time and the running jokes about it got wildly out of hand.
I absolutely love all of these takes
yes
No, sorry, I run a middle school D&D game. The DM is not the one killing the characters. They are actively trying to get each other killed while at the same time trying to achieve the most epic death of their own character. Except for the one kid who genuinely cares about story. Unfortunately he rolls a ridiculous number of nat 1s and so all of his characters die in the most stupid ways despite making otherwise good choices.
I understand why a lot of fantasy settings with Ambiguously Catholic organised religions go the old “the Church officially forbids magic while practising it in secret in order to monopolise its power” route, but it’s almost a shame because the reality of the situation was much funnier.
Like, yes, a lot of Catholic clergy during the Middle Ages did practice magic in secret, but they weren’t keeping it secret as some sort of sinister top-down conspiracy to deny magic to the Common People: they were mostly keeping it secret from their own superiors. It wasn’t one of those “well, it’s okay when we do it” deals: the Church very much did not want its local priests doing wizard shit. We have official records of local priests being disciplined for getting caught doing wizard shit. And the preponderance of evidence is that most of them would take their lumps, promise to stop doing wizard shit, then go right back to doing wizard shit.
It turns out that if you give a bunch of dudes education, literacy, and a lot of time on their hands, some non-zero percentage of them are going to decide to be wizards, no matter how hard you try to stop them from being wizards.
It wasn’t just the hoity-toity ritual magic stuff, either. Popular media often frames a fundamental opposition between the Church and practitioners of the Old Ways™, but on the ground, any given medieval European community’s foremost practitioner of traditional folk magic was likely to be the village priest. And again, they very much were not supposed to be doing this. There were some very pointed letters going around reminding people to cut that shit out, not that we’re naming any names, Jeremy, and no, “if you invoke the saints first it’s fine” is not going to fly with the bishop.
I feel like a lot of folks in the notes are missing a critical piece of context here because they’re not clear on what the Church’s official position toward magic actually was during the Medieval period.
In brief, the idea that magic is a. real and b. Satanic was not the party line for the greater part of the Middle Ages. Obviously the particulars varied both regionally and over time, but for the most part, the official position of the Church was that there is no power but God’s and magic is fake. The Church’s principal objection to the practices of divination, spirit-binding, etc. was that they were fraudulent, not that they imperilled one’s soul. Sometimes this was even carried to the point that accusations of witchcraft would result in the accuser getting in trouble rather than the accused; after all, if your neighbour is pretending to do wizard shit, that’s fraud, but if you actually believe your neighbour is capable of wizard shit, that’s heresy!
The hardline “magic is the work of Satan” stance that most folks are thinking of when they think of magic and the Church wasn’t particularly widespread until very late in the Medieval period, and is really more characteristic of the post-Reformation era – which adds an extra layer of hilarity to the aforementioned local clergy doing wizard shit, because from the perspective of their superiors, the problem was less “oh no, our priests are consorting with Satan” and more “god fucking damn it, our priests keep scamming people with this wizard shit”.
The Catholic Church, desperately penning their 500th letter to local clergy:
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP TELLING PEOPLE MAGIC IS REAL
The really funny part is that, by all accounts, some of the priests involved didn’t even want to be doing wizard shit. Allegedly, they more or less got pressured into it by their congregations, who expected wizard shit of them and wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.
my family is fucking addicted to macgyvering and it’s becoming a problem. every time something in this house breaks, instead of doing the sensible thing of replacing it or calling someone qualified to fix it, we all group around the offending object with a manic look in our eyes and everyone gets a try at fixing it while being cheered on or ridiculed by the rest.
it’s a beautiful bonding activity, but the “creative” fixes have turned our house into a quasihaunted escape room like contraption where everything works, but only in the wonkiest of ways. you need a huge block of iron to turn on the stove. the oven only works if a specific clock is plugged in. the bread machine has a huge wood block just stapled to it that has become foundational to its function. sometimes when you use the toaster the doorbell rings. and that’s just the kitchen.
it’s all fun and games until you have guests over and you have to lay out the rules of the house like it’s a fucking board game. welcome to the beautiful guest room. don’t pull out the couch yourself you need a screwdriver for that, and that metal rod makes the lamp work so don’t move it. it also made me a terrifying roommate in college, because it makes me think i can fix anything with enough hubris and a drill. you want to call the landlord about a leaky faucet? as if. one time my dad made me install a new power socket because we ran our of extension cords
to the people saying this isn’t safe in the tags: my dad has a engineering degree and my brother is a mechanic this is like. state sanctioned macgyvering. safe sane and consensual macgyvering. our house will not burn down. in fact, i think it has made us all better in approaching problems from all angles when they arise, which has served me well in life, especially in high stress situations.
does our hot water switch off every thirty seconds making showers an exiting exercise in counting and resilience? yes. but one time the door of the train toilet broke, trapping me inside, and i went “well i can either succumb to the panic of claustrophobia or do this family-style” and then spent twenty minutes breaking down the lock with my shoelace and the belt i was wearing. so i’ll take the cold water any day
Never have I wanted to see inside a stranger’s home more
This show has been on NPR back home for decades, but I don't think they have ever focused on first nations stuff
Hosted by Dr. Mary Owen, this episode explores the unique aspects of Indigenous healthcare, including: The difference between tribal and non-tribal healthcare systems The importance of cultural beliefs and traditional medicine in healing The historical challenges faced by Indigenous communities in accessing quality healthcare Efforts to integrate traditional practices into Western medicine Panelists share their experiences and insights on how to improve Indigenous health outcomes.
Doctors on Call is a live show. Don't forget to call in or send your questions in advance!
fucking australia’s trying to get everyone to link their government id to their social media accounts else you cant use them anymore, the actual fuck is wrong with this country
please, actually, get fucking mad over this, the entirety of australia basically just banned all social media for anyone who doesnt want to give up their privacy to the government, there was no vote on this, no nothing, they just went ahead and fucking passed this ridiculously privy law and barely anybody’s talking about it the actual fuck
okay so to actually explain what exactly is happening, it’s an age thing. theyve used ‘protect the children’ and ‘let kids be kids’ as a weapon again. anyone under 16 is banned from social media, but to enforce this they have openly admitted everyone will need to link their government id to their social media. this whole ‘protect the kids’ thing was a very obvious trojan horse for getting ppl to give up their privacy.
and yknow, that alone is a very shitty law even without the whole surrendering your private information to the government thing.
theyve made outside uninhabitable, there’s nowhere left to go. public areas have degenerated, theyve turned hanging out into a crime with loitering, streets feel unwalkable sometimes, parents are more wary of letting their kids walk around on their own than they used to be, and now theyre trying to ban one of the main ways kids manage to distract themselves inside the house.
when i was 15 i was depressed and lonely, unable to leave the house very far, no friends, nobody. the one place that helped me feel less alone was online communities. i wouldve killed myself if it werent for the support i recieved on there. and now theyre trying to ban that for future generations, in a world that hates them being both outside and inside.
and even still, this is still a fucking trojan horse to get you to give up your privacy.
