kittentoast

@Danwlfn @ankorinclan Her parents were Jewish New Yorkers

@ankorinclan 중동사람같네

Antes de Susan Kare, los ordenadores no tenían cara. Tenían texto. Tenían comandos. Tenían una línea parpadeante que esperaba a que escribieras algo exacto, en el idioma exacto, en el orden exacto. Si no sabías ese idioma, la máquina no era para ti. Kare cambió eso con cuadrícula y paciencia. Era 1982 cuando Steve Jobs la reclutó para el proyecto Macintosh. Kare tenía formación en bellas artes, no en informática. Eso resultó ser exactamente lo que se necesitaba. Trabajaba en papel cuadriculado, píxel a píxel, dibujando a mano las imágenes que luego traducía a la pantalla. Cada icono era un problema de comunicación más que de diseño: ¿cómo representas "guardar" en una cuadrícula de 32x32 puntos y que cualquier persona, sin instrucción previa, entienda inmediatamente lo que significa? La papelera de reciclaje. El reloj de arena. La bomba de error. El cursor de mano. El icono del Mac sonriente. Los diseñó ella. Las fuentes del primer Macintosh también: Chicago, Geneva, Monaco, Cairo, Athens. Las nombró como ciudades porque le parecía que merecían nombres propios. Lo que Kare inventó, aunque no lo llamara así, fue el vocabulario visual de la informática personal. Un sistema de símbolos que no requería manual, que atravesaba idiomas, que podía entender alguien que nunca había tocado un ordenador. Antes de ella, la interfaz gráfica era una idea técnica. Después de ella, era un lenguaje que hablaban millones de personas sin saber que lo habían aprendido. La foto es de esa época. Jeans, New Balance, sudadera gris, el pelo rizado enmarcando una cara que mira a la cámara con la comodidad de alguien en su territorio. Detrás, monitores, catálogos, notas pegadas, el desorden productivo de quien tiene demasiadas cosas en la cabeza para preocuparse por el orden. En alguno de esos monitores, probablemente, los píxeles que estaban cambiando para siempre cómo el mundo usaría las máquinas. Ella no lo sabía todavía. O quizás sí.

New figure painting Acrylic on Canvas board

Acrylic on canvas 60×60 cm “Water Lilies and Burdocks” 2025 Last summer, in 2025, my children and I went on a journey through northern France. In Belgium, summer holidays last almost two months, and during this time schools and kindergartens are closed. Every year I think about how parents manage without grandparents nearby or any help from a partner. For me, this is always the period when I almost stop painting and fully focus on my children, simply because there is no one else to leave them with. But at the same time, these months often become the source of the warmest memories and unexpected inspiration. One of the places we visited was where Claude Monet once lived and worked. We walked through his famous gardens with the children, visited his home, and saw the pond with water lilies that inspired so many of his paintings. It felt surreal to walk along the same paths where the artist once searched for light, reflections, and color. I have never seen so many flowers in one place before. The gardens are incredibly well cared for, and everything there feels immersed in shades of green, blue, and violet. Painting there en plein air would be impossible though — there are so many visitors that everyone moves almost in a line behind each other. But even that short visit stayed with me for a very long time. I guess what I want to say is this: Spend more time with your children. Sometimes children lead us to places that later become part of our paintings, our memories, and our soul. Children are inspiration too. #waterlilies #acrylicpainting #claudemonet #impressionism #landscapepainting

Sketchbook page....ink drawing of Orson Welles

Primrose Hill

Acrylic on canvas, 60×70 cm “Fallen into a Pond” When I shared my new frog painting and the story about my son yesterday, people started writing: “You should paint a cat in a pond.” But the funny thing is — I already did 🙂 This painting was created back in 2024 and was sold a long time ago, but today I wanted to share it with you again. Maybe it’s not a coincidence that I once imagined it this way. When I was a child, I had cats. Not just one — three of them. And like many little girls (and even grown-up girls), I adored them. I washed them, brushed them, cared for them, and talked to them like they were people. But one cat was special. He loved going to the lake with me when I went fishing. And the most surprising thing was — he swam. On his own. When the weather was hot, he would simply walk into the water and swim. Sometimes after butterflies, sometimes just beside me. It still amazes me, because cats usually hate water — and yet there was this cat, happily swimming across the lake. The world is far more surprising than we think. Keep observing it. Keep wondering about it. And never stop noticing the small, strange miracles #acrylicpainting #texturedart #catart #waterlilies #impressionistart

The Horrible Snow Cat, 1969, by Albert Dumouchel

@IsaacDovere Paywall

You wanted to see the long hidden DNC autopsy report of the 2024 election loss. Here it is, and the convoluted never reported story of how it became an existential crisis of Ken Martin. The autopsy of the autopsy: cnn.com/2026/05/21/pol…

" La mémoire est une drôle de compagne. Qui vous lâche quand vous en avez besoin et qui vous obsède lorsqu’il faudrait vous laisser tranquille." - Camille Gallard - ART@ James Hague

@Dr_TheHistories Are the poems recorded? Which poets were they?

A man dies in a flat in Amsterdam. No one has heard from him in some time. The neighbors knew his face but not his name. There is no family to call, no friends listed anywhere, no one to claim the body or arrange the burial. The city takes over, as cities do. And then, somewhere in the municipal building, a phone rings, and a poet is told that next week they have a funeral to write. This is the work F. Starik began in Amsterdam in the early 2000s. He called it the Lonely Funeral. The idea was simple and very strange. When a person dies with no one to mourn them, the city sends a poet to the grave. Before the burial, the poet is given whatever has been recovered of the person's life. An address. A bank statement. A drawer of photographs. Sometimes a diary. Sometimes nothing at all. From these fragments, the poet writes a poem, and on the day of the funeral they stand at the graveside and read it aloud. The attendance is small. A civil servant. The funeral director. Four pallbearers in dark coats. The poet. That is usually everyone. Starik described the work as a form of attention. The poem is not a eulogy, exactly. The poet did not know the person, and to pretend otherwise would be a lie at a graveside, which is the wrong place to lie. Instead the poem holds what can be held. The shape of a room. The weight of a name spoken aloud, perhaps for the first time in years. The fact that someone, in the end, was paying attention. The poets who took this on described it as some of the hardest writing of their lives. A week to research a stranger. A week to find the one true thing that could be said about them. They walked through the flats before they were cleared. They read the post on the mat. They sat with social workers and looked at photographs of children no one had been able to trace. They wrote in the evenings. The project has spread. Groningen, Utrecht, Rotterdam, The Hague. Other cities in Belgium have begun similar programs. The premise has stayed the same. A poet, a coffin, a few people who did not know the deceased, and a poem read aloud into the air above a grave. Starik died in 2018. His own funeral was crowded. He had spent fifteen years making sure that other people's were not empty. What the project understood, and what it keeps insisting on, is that a life witnessed only at its end is still witnessed. The poem will not be remembered. The grave will be quiet again within the hour. But for the length of a few stanzas, in a small ceremony almost no one will ever hear about, a stranger stands over another stranger and says, in effect, you were here, and someone noticed. It is not much. It is also, perhaps, the most that can be done. © Reddit #drthehistories

Pickle ball. My acrylic painting.

Grumpy cat by Erika Lee Sears

Winnie The Witch - Korky Paul

The latest from my pal #IanBaker

@WyattEarp231223 @Favwontmiss

@Favwontmiss What the neurodivergent is blinded to is the fact that some people are already well aware of the harm they are causing you and that’s actually the point for them.

I found out recently that it’s a neurodivergent trauma response to believe if people understood the impact of their actions they’d change their behaviour and it explains a lot.

@misspatsycline2 @SeattlePD @grok Juniper Blessing

@SeattlePD @grok Who is the victim of the crime being discussed?

Detectives seek suspect in homicide of University of Washington Student. spdblotter.seattle.gov/2026/05/11/det…

@Cyndi986 Sexual harassment 🤮🤮🤮

POV: even the referees are getting more love and hydration than most of us 😂⚽💦

pikmin oil pastel