another 1897 poster calendar (the calendars)

i find it so interesting that two of the three major artists
in the turn-of-the-century realm of graphics
in america both did the same thing at the same time.

they had to know each other. louis rhead and edward penfield,
joined with will bradley, were bright lights then,
and have, astonishingly, stayed bright.

but i can't find any mention of the two,
rhead and penfield, together. were they friends?
competitors? or were their publishers competitors?

i wish i knew.

is it more a modern-day obsession
that we want to know all about
the personal lives?

nahhhhh.

calendari

in summer's eyes

1805

.さし汐も朝はうれしやとぶ乙鳥
sashishio mo asa wa ureshi ya tobu tsubame

high tide
and a happy morning...
swallows flying

1806

.蓮の花燕はとしのよらぬ也
hasu [no] hana tsubame wa toshi no yoranu nari

among lotus blossoms
the swallows don't
grow old

1807

.巣乙鳥の目を放さぬや暮の空
su tsubame no me wo hanasanu ya kure no sora

baby swallows in the nest--
eyes glued
on the evening sky

1807

.山里は乙鳥の声も祝ふ也
yama-zato wa tsubame no koe mo iwau nari

mountain village--
even the swallows sing
in celebration

1814

.乙鳥よ是はそなたが桃の花
tsubakura yo kore wa sonata ga momo no hana

swallows--
these peach blossoms belong
to you

david lanoue is who does so many of the wonderful issa translations i feature here, often with his commentary. just wanted to say thanks, david.

the strange mr. strange

edward fairbrother strange made his living writing articles and books about design: lettering, bookbinding, lace, etc. his tone was often one of arch dissatisfaction and resentment that no longer were the excellent standards of the past being upheld.

we've met him already, listening to him rail against the degenerate work of seitei watanabe, and i promised you you'd hear more. after railing generally against american book design, he says:

to turn to the consideration of some particular cases, one is compelled to reiterate a somewhat well-worn story, that of the wide-spread and curious influence of aubrey beardsley. the cover designs by bertram g goodhue are often full of it--beardsley's earlier manner of the morte d'arthur;

but of all beardsley's disciples the one who has more closely approached to him in method is will h bradley. the binding of the romance of zion castle is a typical example of this somewhat common tendency. here we have another version of the 'avenue poster' type of decoration;

with, however, not a tithe of the marvellous success of the latter in indication form and drapery by judiciously balance flat masses. in mr bradley's design the gold is over-done, and the hard boundary lines to which it gives rise spoil the effect of the decidedly clever distribution of the upper part of the cover.

the same artist's lyrics of earth wants balance; the serpentine line is rather too heavy, and not very gracefully distributed, although the tree is well rendered and just in its proper place.

a very pleasant treatment of a conventional landscape is that adopted by mr louis rhead, in meadow grass. the use of a picture pure and simple for a cover, instead of some arrangement of ornament, is a new and dangerous device; and it requires powers of no uncommon order to secure for it the success obtained by mr rhead in this instance.

a book-cover has been made by margaret armstrong for love-letters of a musician. it is good in color, the rare subordination of the two lines of floral diaper giving a pleasing effect, but the head of st cecelia, done on an inlay of vellum in slight relief, and the border gold which surrounds it, seem rather forced and over-wrought.

the same artist has produced an effective composition of poppies and pipe-stems, in crimson, light green and gold, on coarse white canvas, for washington irving's rip van winkle.

this is, one would imagine, a good 'saleable' cover, though, from the critical point of view it must not be too closely considered, and the lettering cries aloud for condemnation.

(mr strange was by no means alone in his pouts; snipping, snapping and sniping were the trade of the day in the large and gor- geously produced periodicals covering the art world. so what else is new?)

falling into spring

since i started paying attention, i've realized that museums and galleries repeat shows, and this fall at least two museums will do just that -- to the world's benefit.

in japan, at the new otani art museum, the show inspired by hokusai and hiroshige's '36 views' series, henri riviere's '36 views of the eiffel tower.'

i know this was seen in japan in 1996, but surely before that too, and in 2006 too.

dis- played with the riviere works, are other artists of the time, including works by georges auriol.

i found these images so evocative of so many other artists: zecchin, gauld, rhead, mathews....

that the shows should be coming now, as we in the northern hemisphere stride rapidly toward autumn, must be for the benefit of the southern hemisphere, where spring now looms. sadly, the 'california muse' exhibition of the work of arthur and lucia mathews closed at its last venue last week. now it goes back to the oakland museum where it will be packed away for the cold, damp winter.

david gauld and the other 'glasgow boys' are displayed at the kelvingrove gallery & museum. under the theme of 'impressionism & scotland,' the restored space will continue to promote the brilliant scottish artists.

and the other re- peating exhibition, last held in 1999, is at the hirschl & adler gallery in new york.

louis rhead and other american illustrators, contemporaries of his, travelled similar grounds; 'our women are all so lovely and cultured, and they like long flowered dresses.' or, to be said in another way, they all, costume-wise, anyway, were inspired by their newly discovered kimono.

and to bring this full circle, again,
henri riviere.

cross-cultural studies II

Queen Victoria said: "I am most anxious to enlist everyone who can speak or write to join in checking this mad, wicked folly of 'Women's Rights', with all its attendant horrors, on which her poor feeble sex is bent, forgetting every sense of womanly feelings and propriety.

"Feminists ought to get a good whipping.

"Were woman to 'unsex' them- selves by claiming equality with men, they would become the most hateful, heathen and disgusting of beings and would surely perish without male protection." 1

During the Edo and Meiji (1868-1912 A.D.) periods, women were considered worthy of a certain amount of education.

Every girl, except those in the lower classes, was trained in the domestic and aesthetic arts.

This education included learning the Japanese written language, the Chinese classics, poetry, music, etiquette, flower arrangement, tea ceremony, calligraphy and painting, and in some areas, dancing.

Such talents were considered suitable for a proper woman and wife. 2

The Tal- mud- ists aver that teach- ing women to read is tiflut “unbe- coming behavior, sexual license, [and] a waste of time.”

The strictures they instituted blocking women from access to reading literacy, the minimum needed for participation in religious ritual was, until the seventh- century and only in Europe, carefully adhered.

Before that time few women in any Jewish population were reading much less writing literate.

Without the ability to record their lives for posterity, including their very much needed participation in holy days such as Passover, the experiences of half of the Jewish people have been and to a large extent continue to be ignored. 3

Surveys consistently find that women read more books than men, especially fiction. Explanations abound, from the biological differences between the male and female brains, to the way that boys and girls are introduced to reading at a young age. 4

throughout time and cultures, the idea that women should be taught to read has been suspect at best. but once again one thing becomes increasingly clear. in japan you really don't need to have red hair to read.

solstice II

YOU CAN'T HAVE IT ALL

But you can have the fig tree and its fat leaves like clown hands

gloved with green. You can have the touch
of a single eleven-year-old finger

on your cheek, waking you at one a.m.
to say the hamster is back.

You can have the purr of the cat
and the soulful look

of the black dog, the look that says,
If I could I would bite

every sorrow until it fled,
and when it is August,

you can have it August and abundantly so. You can have love,

though often it will be mysterious,
like the white foam

that bubbles up at the top of the bean pot over the red kidneys

until you realize foam's twin is blood.

You can have the skin at the center between a man's legs,

so solid, so doll-like.
You can have the life of the mind,

glowing occasionally in priestly vestments, never admitting pettiness,

never stooping to bribe the sullen guard who'll tell you

all roads narrow at the border.

You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,

and it can mean something. You can visit the marker on the grave

where your father wept openly. You can't bring back the dead,

but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands

as if they meant to spend a lifetime together. And you can be grateful

for makeup, the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful

for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels

sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,

for passion fruit, for saliva.
You can have the dream,

the dream of Egypt, the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.

You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,

at least for a while,
you can have clouds and letters, the leaping

of distances, and Indian food
with yellow sauce like sunrise.

You can't count on grace
to pick you out of a crowd

but here is your friend to teach you
how to high jump,

how to throw yourself
over the bar, backwards,

until you learn about love,
about sweet surrender,

and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind

as real as Africa. And when adulthood fails you,

you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond

of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas

your grandmother gave you
while the rest of the family slept.

There is the voice you can still summon
at will, like your mother's,

it will always whisper, you can't have it all,

but there is this.

Barbara Ras

From Bite Every Sorrow by Barbara Ras,
published by Louisiana State University Press, 1998.
Copyright © 1997 by Barbara Ras. All rights reserved.