Daria Starts To Eat Her Hamburger.

Jacob Stack, Day of the Girl, signed print, 297 x 210 mm. 

Source: Jam Art Prints, Irish Art & Design, Jam Art Factory, 64 Patrick St, Wood Quay, Dublin 8, Ireland. 

sorry in advance, my babies

Marc Chagall, Au-dessus de Vitebsk, 1915-1920, huile sur toile, 67 x 92,7 cm, the Museum of Modern Art, New York.

Source: “Chagall, entre guerre et paix”, du 21 février au 21 juillet 2013, Musée du Luxembourg, Paris. 

Cassius Clay and his mother Odessa Grady Clay, Steve Schapiro, Louisville, USA, 1963.

For years now I have heard the word "Wait!" It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This "Wait" has almost always meant "Never." We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that "justice too long delayed is justice denied." We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God-given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we stiff creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, "Wait." But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son who is asking: "Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?"; when you take a cross-country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading "white" and "colored"; when your first name becomes "nigger," your middle name becomes "boy" (however old you are) and your last name becomes "John," and your wife and mother are never given the respected title "Mrs."; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you go forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness"–then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait.

Martin Luther King, Letter from Birmingham Jail, 1963. 

Source: lefthandedtoons.com

“Muhammad Ali, Monopoly”, Steve Schapiro, Louisville, USA, 1963. 

The crazy thing about the human condition is that we are only able to relate to the world to the extent that our language and its limits will allow us to. If you ask any bilingual person, they will probably tell you that the person they are in language A is at least slightly different from the person they are in language B, because to truly learn a language you have to adapt your thought process at least partially to encompass the new reality that the second language creates. And that’s a major thing in sociology, if the language(s) you speak cannot describe a concept, then that concept effectively does not exist for you. We didn’t create language, language created us.

André Masson, plafond de l’Odéon- théâtre de l’Europe, Paris, 1965. 

Source: Mystic Cheesecake Balloon.

Source: Saturday Morning Cartoons: Baopu #15 by Yao Xiao.