star to follow

KUBLA KHAN

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-
dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were
girdled round:
And there were gardens bright
with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an
incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient
as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic
chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick
pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted
like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long

I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

i offer you something more entertaining than sensible. just curious, though-- am i the only one around here that has a passion for print and pattern? not that i'd stop those posts, but y'all can be so quiet for so long!

russe

DUST LIGHT, LEAVES

Above autumn's burgundy
and rust,
beyond the orange groves
chafing and ruddy in the frost,
a cloud lifts into blue . . .

the west goes up all haydust, flame,
and the flat land glimmers
out to it on the day-stream--
it is Millet's sky of "The Angelus,"

that nine- teenth century sky
we have only in paintings
and in these few still moments
in their rose and amber rags.

As a child, I remember this . . .
standing on the creek stones,
dusk moving over the fields
like a ship's hull pulling away

with that first sense of loss
and release; I saw it was
all about the beginning of dust
rising into the long sky's seam.
into my own two eyes and hands.

A chalk-white moon overhead
and to the right, umber waves
of sparrows back and through
the empty trees . . .

Soon, stars will draw analogies
in the dark, but now the world
is simple as the dead leaves
glowing in this late hour,

simple as our desire
to rise lucent as clouds
in their camisoles of dust,
the cool air burning though us

over leaves drifting on a pond,
over the last memory
of ourselves looking up,
stunned as a carp blinking at the light.

Christopher Buckley

(this whole exploration in hue began when i noticed, in the metropolitan museum's collection, the oddly matching color schemes of the (at top) dagobert peche textile and the callot soeurs gown. i am not sophisticated in color theory, but i poked around until sense seemed to begun being made. the ballet russe had a tremendous influence on design in the first quarter of the twentieth century. how those became the colors of the ballet russe, and how these same colors came to become circulated around the western world, i do not know. but know that matisse as well as bakst designed their costumes, then carried the language of their colors into the world.)

paper wonder cloth wonder

what
frivolous
important
joy.

another cornucopia of treasures have opened their doors much wider than they'd done before -- the metropolitan museum of art. it just occurred to me that one no longer is required to say 'the metropolitan museum of new york' because the great museums of the world are no longer fixed in one place.

you cannot imagine how much this thrills me. for example, one of the first things i did in paris was to go to the museum of decorative arts (i'm not sure if that's what it was called then, then being 1989), go into the back rooms where the glassware wasn't so much displayed as stored in cabinets with labels on them. and i was so enthralled that i took notes so i would never forget:

"daum-- pink fleurs, silver a nuit; albert louis dammouse-- les colours l'art nouveau et iris verre; alphonse georges rayen-- red wheat a blend & lotus; galle-- very pale blue & green; pannier freres-- red carp & lotus; george despret-- les colours...." of course i remember none of these and am not even sure that i am reading my own writing correctly. what you are reading is ecstasy by glass.

having the newly increased access to the met's collections feels like that too. one (me) can spend all day viewing french clothing from the 20th century, taking sidetrips at coco chanel, callot soeurs, madeline vionnet, and the house of worth. while i wish the timeline searches were more, the whole set of fine-tuning possibilities can make finding your particular interests easy.

and look at these colors; it might as well be spring. after the first world war, design was bursting out all over, nature, color, and the drift towards abstraction had become normalized to the western eye, and there was reason to celebrate.

"after the austerity of the war years there was a move towards strong colors and a touch of the exotic." 1

these styles, these artists, are not new to this blog; chinoiserie is more mentioned in that book than japonisme, but it's traces are evident.

designers from the silver studio "show their interest in the formal clarity of japanese designs. particularly influential were the beautifully rhythmic, conventionalized patterns of woodblocks and stencils. arthur silver himself was deeply interested in japanese art, subscribing to bing's artistic japan, and collecting japanese prints and stencil sheets."

the book is quite clear in reminding us that these scrumptious designs were available only to the rich. the rich had more a taste for them; the rich could afford them. i had a similar realization in perusing the 1920s fashions on the met's site. had i been there, i might have worked where i helped design them, but i would never ever wear one. i would never hang these papers on my walls.

fortunately that ache can be assuaged with glory: that one may now devour the riches of the past, almost up close and personal, is incredibly satisfying, and takes up much less room in the closets.

inevitable

inevitable. looking back across the 20th century, it seems that every movement in art history peels smoothly off the one before, uncurling itself as though new. but it's not; it's an inevitable step on the road, given that, expect this.

modern abstract art is inevitable, given the stripped-down shape-for-shape-sake of the bauhaus years. art had been making the dive into abstraction for decades, to the point where meaning and reference become moot: sheer existence. ("just dance! don't think!"1)

art deco into bauhaus is obviously inevitable: abstraction of shape into outline lent itself to form over fantasy. clearing out, clearing away to make way for the modern age in which everyone was too busy to think a wasted thought, or waste a single movement. the line was important then, which was inevitable.

and yes, i am simplifying, but i wouldn't want to fall behind the times! also bold were the times leading into the art deco moment. art nouveau was about that line, that curve, that color, that biological reference...

and art nouveau... that was not inevitable. yes, one could say it was preceded by impressionism, well, it was preceded by impressionism, but impressionism was more about an entire field whereas art nouveau and all of its inevitable followers were about one thing: the line.

to my eyes nothing whatsoever in anything that preceded the arrival of the east predicted what was to follow. the beginning of the line which was not to end. nothing in the tiny and drab patterns of western textiles hinted of the explosion that was to come. (nor predicted was the inspiration by a zionist art nouveau designer from galicia of a british-turned-american designer named louis rhead!)

it wasn't always a linear progression; some of the textiles of the deco stylists more resembled the japanese textiles than did their earlier counterparts. but was this exuberant jump to boldness predictable? i think not!

was the festoonization of clothing with flora and fauna an expected result of incoming culture? why should it be? not a chance! or was it to be expected that practically overnight color broke the color barrier? i pale just thinking of it.

that upper-crust drawing rooms might be thrilled to adorn their walls with spiders might have raised some eyebrows, but other than little miss muffet, everyone would have it no other way. for it was nature and color bursting from their wraps in the holds of the black ships arriving from japan.

and while japan likely viewed their latest fashions as being inevitable, given the season before, not a soul, i would bet, would have ever guessed that in the west they would inspire a series of inevitable progressions for decades and decades to come.

(check out MODA's new blog.)

the longest day!

MIRACLES

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of
nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs
of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me
riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness
of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light
and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior
swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

Walt Whitman

MIRACLE FAIR

Commonplace miracle:
that so many commonplace miracles happen.

An ordinary miracle:
in the dead of night
the barking of invisible dogs.

One miracle out of many:
a small, airy cloud
yet it can block a large and heavy moon.

Several miracles in one:
an alder tree reflected in the water,
and that it's backwards left to right
and that it grows there, crown down
and never reaches the bottom,
even though the water is shallow.

An everyday miracle:
winds weak to moderate
turning gusty in storms.

First among equal miracles:
cows are cows.

Second to none:
just this orchard
from just that seed.

A miracle without a cape and top hat:
scattering white doves.

A miracle, for what else could you call it:
today the sun rose at three-fourteen
and will set at eight-o-one.

A miracle, less surprising than it should be:
even though the hand has fewer
than six fingers,
it still has more than four.

A miracle, just take a look around:
the world is everywhere.

An additional miracle,
as everything is additional:
the unthinkable is thinkable.

Wislawa Szymborska
translated by Joanna Trzeciak

oops... almost forgot

woman as decoration (so what else is new?)

i have been trying to find the portfolio from which these images are taken for years, and, you guessed it: they're at the Wolf- sonian! all of the images are by our old friend, julius klinger, and one we've featured before. that's now two, with the hoytema calendars, searches laid to rest. but now that i see them all i'm somewhat troubled; do we duplicate too easily? do we grimace and prance as our natural practices?

i'm starting to wonder if my values aren't keeping up with the times. i'm also wondering if i'm a hypocrite. i have a google alert set up for the word japonisme, so whenever it's used online i get pointed in its direction.

for some time now, images from this blog have shown up on tumbler, but that site seems assiduously, somehow, to make sure every images is linked, one way or another, back to its source. enter pinterest, and the whole system falls apart. users link to tumbler rather than here, for one thing, or they just download images from here and assign themselves as the source.

i seem to have gotten myself really all tangled up with myself over this. then the pinterest users repin each other's pins, and soon any hint of source is non-existent. and i ask myself, given that there's nothing that can be done about it, 'should i care?'.

i know that it bothers me in part because i see things that i know required hours of work to make them appear effortlessly beautiful. but i also begin to wonder if that kind of 'ownership' in this kind of context has any meaning anymore.

add to that, i haven't always been perfect at attributing sources, so does that make me no different? i get email occasionally asking why don't i just use tumbler, as if it's getting to be that context, even any text, grows more meaningless every day as the image increas- ingly becomes all that matters.

once, back in the day, in the hippie commune where i was living in the haight-ashbury, some guy off the street (friend of a friend?) walked into my room, went through my drawers, found my little water-painting set, and began to paint. when i found him and objected, he told me i was too attached to ownership of physical things. was i a bad hippie? this is like that.

though am i any different? i spend all this time writing this stuff, and rarely read the text on other blogs. sure, i want my blog to be read, as does every blogger who puts in time, sometimes quite a bit, to write copy and context. and yet, how often do i just look at the pictures? heck, i have a whole wall of books on this subject, and how many of those have i read? i've looked at the pictures.

and isn't it a good thing, that so many people know about japonisme now (bunches of boards on pinterest! -- lots with my images)? i remember not so long ago when nobody had ever heard of gustave baumann or arthur wesley dow, let alone mabel royds ... or julius klinger. and yet i simmer and stew, as though the pixels were still part of my fingertips, and now dispersing into the ether.