Tag Archives: painting

Peter Quince at the Clavier

ken howard, the blue dress

The Blue Dress, Ken Howard

UST as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music.

-from Peter Quince at the Clavier, Wallace Stevens

She Walks in Beauty

At_the_Shrine jww

At the Shrine, John William Waterhouse

She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

-Lord Byron

Poetry: You Said Is


Romantica 1, Raffaella Blanc

you said Is
there anything which
is dead or alive more beautiful
than my body, to have in your fingers
(trembling ever so little)?
Looking into
your eyes Nothing, I said, except the
air of spring smelling of never and forever.

-e.e cummings

La Figlia Che Piange(The Weeping Girl)

impressionistic painting girl

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair –
Lean on a garden urn –
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair –
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained suprise –
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and a shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight, and the noon’s repose.

— T. S. Eliot

Make Art: Tea and Color

Tea cups photography via coffee and irony

rt Boris Kopka

He made warmth in a world of cold. She made color in a world of grey

Paint splashes make art inspiration

rt Indigo Soul

CoffeeLetter: Peanut butter noodles, rain on the docks, new spring books

Coffeeletter 2


The CoffeeLetter is out! This is a once-every-two-months newsletter I send to blog followers; view this one here and subscribe to get the next one. Cheers!


Art Love: Rain on the Docks

rainy day pastel painting

Before just the daylight
Come and I stand by
Waiting to catch the quickest plane
Fly me to nowhere
it’s better than somewhere
That’s where I’ve been and nothing’s changed –

“Angel of Mercy,” One Republic

Poetry: Overlooked Heroine, Landscape with the Fall of Icarus*

here was a splash quite unnoticed/ this was Icarus drowning
—William Carlos Williams

Bruegel chose the moment when young legs
closed like a pocket knife into the waiting sea.
Later, someone called it a mundane disaster;
said, “it couldn’t have been helped,” the flash
of a diving bird that turned out to be a boy.

I say this: Whatever suffering there was,
you brought it to the scene yourself.
You chose to be the shepherd who watched clouds
while a hawk studied sheep from the tree.
You chose to be the sleeping sailor, heavy
in the crow’s nest of that harbor ship,
or the fisherman too busy with his worms.
You must have known by heart the plodding path
walked by a horse wearing leather blinders.

And the ploughman, how did he greet tragedy?
Why, he had laid down his dagger and moneybelt
in the shade, and would not leave them unwatched.
He was no hero, he ploughed without swerving
and let one foot step soft into the turned furrow.
And there, in the field already ploughed,
was a spot on the ground, a pale mound
which proved upon closer inspection
to be the white skull of an old man, settling.
If he noticed either sinking body
the ploughman merely shrugged:
the Dutch have a proverb: De ploeg gaat over lijken

Read more

-Kathleen Heideman, DecomP Magazine

A poem inspired by Brueghel’s painting, to follow W.H. Auden’s much-loved classic “Musee des Beaux Arts

Art Love: Andre Kohn

andre kohn dancers

Art Love: Warmth

warmth contemporary painting womanby contemporary LA-based artist Scott David Laufer


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