Call Me Quell

Design thinker, writer, & doer.
A little obsessed with typography. (all hail, Robert Bringhurst)
Open for freelance!



Vancouver: Never before have I been in a city that was as able and eager to strike up a conversation.

stay away from lonely places

(via thisfeelingcallsfortea)


What I don’t understand is the beauty. 
The last attempts of the rain, my shoulders 
aching from all afternoon with the ladders 
and the hour with her. I watch the rainbow 
until I have to focus so hard I seem 
to create it. Thinking of her watching 
this storm, wanting him. This lightning. 
This glut in the gutters. Now only 
the yellow left. Now the blue 
seeped out. The purple gone. The red 
gone. People downstairs playing Bach, 
the quiet attenuated Bach. She must 
have tried and tried. The holes drilled in. 
The small man in the movie who looked 
like laughter would kill him. The carnation 
farmer who left snared birds for the woman 
he loved. Who would hang himself after 
stitching her ribbon to his chest.
What I don’t understand is the beauty. 
I remember the theatre in Berkeley where 
we sat eating cucumbers, watching the colossal 
faces played over with colossal loss. 
I would get off early and meet her outside, 
her hair always wet. All last night 
I listened to the students walk by until 3, 
only the drunk left, the rebuffed and 
suddenly coupled. What did I almost 
write down on the pad by my bed 
that someone lowered me into my sleep? One morning 
when she and I still lived together, 
the pad said only, cotton. Cotton. 
Sometimes it’s horrible, the things said 
outright. But nothing explains the beauty, 
not weeping and shivering on that stone bench, 
not kneeling by the basement drain. 
Not remembering otherwise, that scarf she wore, 
the early snow, her opening the door 
in the bathing light. She must have tried 
and tried. What I don’t understand is the beauty.

—Dean Young



Zaha Hadid, 1982-1983 - From an unbuilt project entitled ‘The Peak’ in Hong Kong

Found in ‘Zaha Hadid - Inspiration and Process in Architecture’

(via alwaysinstudio)



Barcelona Pavilion interior

Mies van der Rohe


arguably my favorite of mies’ works, though that’s very difficult

(Source: blackwhitelight, via alwaysinstudio)



École, Europan, Couvet, Switzerland, c. 2013

(via alwaysinstudio)



Shiro Kuramata, Drawing

(via alwaysinstudio)



Mono Madness Nick Frank

(via alwaysinstudio)




I literally hate everything about this picture.


sitting in a coffeeshop listening to the oversharing old man next to me (writer, from new york, wants to “go with [his] best self”) chat with two super lesbians (shaved head, gauged ears, bourbon-bottle jaws) sharing his table, deciding to go to russian house. how is your day?


My friend Adam Serwer once made the astute observation that most white people “can only relate to racial discrimination in the abstract. What white people can relate to is the fear of being unjustly accused of racism.” The lesson translates to cases of sexual assault and harassment. Those of us who have been forced to personally cope with powerful men behaving badly are certain that the accusers in these situations are worth listening to. “These are not stories we tell for fun, attention or revenge,” tweeted Lena Dunham. There are many women like us working in media, but we’re outnumbered — or definitely outranked — by men who are inclined to relate to the experience of being accused.