The sword is easier to use.
Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter’s honor. [Hemingway//Death in the Afternoon]
Holy fucking shit. Apparently animals don’t like being forced to engage in a combat that usually ends in slow, torturous death. The above picture is from a recent bullfight in which the bull, well…he fucking gored the bullfighter. Dude isn’t dead, but he’s laid out in the hospital.
I’m not going to go into some weird hypocritical animal activist diatribe (I’m snacking on a bacon cheeseburger as we speak), but I will say this: try not to fuck with Mother Nature too much.
Pulphope, holding in his hand the first one hundred pages of Battling Boy. I’ve been waiting for this book for a couple of years now, so to see such a tease pop up on his Flickr got me all sorts of hot’n'bothered.
The general premise of Battling Boy: the son of some sort of god/superhero has to come down from the mythical mountain to beat monster butt. Fairly simple story, with art to make the jaw-drop. The artist has hinted that this is going to be an unrestrained opus, with fight scenes taking up fifty pages at times.
Mr. Pope, feel free to bind those pages and send them to me via FedEx.
Don’t know anything about photography – but I know this is a great photo. The image is equal parts sexy, haunting, and just damn cool. In a way, it reminds me of something out of a PT Anderson flick or some shit.
Oh yeah, +5 points for the Clark Kent glasses.
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