art fecundity

I have just recently come across the work
of William Gorge, whose work is clearly
the result of the mating of the work of
Arie Zonneveld and the work of Frances Gearhart.

born in evil days

AS I STEP OVER A PUDDLE AT THE END OF WINTER,
I THINK OF AN ANCIENT CHINESE GOVERNOR

And how can I, born in evil days
And fresh from failure, ask a kindness of Fate?

-- Written A.D. 819

Po Chu-i, balding old politician,
What's the use?
I think of you,
Uneasily entering the gorges of the Yang-Tze,

When you were being towed up the rapids
Toward some political job or other
In the city of Chungshou.

You made it, I guess,
By dark.

But it is 1960, it is almost spring again,
And the tall rocks of Minneapolis
Build me my own black twilight
Of bamboo ropes and waters.

Where is Yuan Chen,
the friend you loved?

Where is the sea, that once solved the whole loneliness
Of the Midwest?Where is Minneapolis? I can see nothing
But the great terrible oak tree darkening with winter.

Did you find the city
of isolated men
beyond mountains?

Or have you been holding the end of a frayed rope
For a thousand years?

James Wright

it can't happen here

i watch these governmental fools calling out the national guard,
and have to ask, do they not remember?

lily pond: art detective

yesterday i went through all 968 posts and put the label 'detective' on all of them that did what this post and yesterday's try to do. if you see any that should be marked, or unmarked, please let me know.

to the left and below we have the utamaro image that eventually may have cost him his freedom, and then his life. next the kunisada print, done perhaps in homage. we've seen them before. at the top, though, is a new one to me... apparently jail didn't stop utamaro.

i'll let you know if i find that bird again.

the red rose girls again impress us with their hip-ness, as elizabeth shippen green has volume 4 of artistic japan propping up the child's chessboard.

maybe some day i'll be able to id some of those other books. this one, i happened to have.

and manuel robbe does it again, though in the reference print, the other print is reversed!

i'm certain that many of his prints feature reference prints of his other works; i'll let you know if i figure any more.

i was realizing the other day that i seem to have passed into a different phase. i'm no longer hunting for that print by arthur wesley dow or bjo nordfeldt that i've never seen. there aren't any more.

but now my head is filled with files which allow this kind of connections to click in my brain. so to see some similar posts from earlier in the blog-life, click:

DETECTIVE

(and ps--i've got a lot more in the wings)

art detective

how i love to play detective. when i first saw the vallotton painting i thought i recognized the print on the wall. finally dug it up, it's by his compatriot, vuillard. i looked too at a similar print (the name of the painter of which i will fill in when i remember it!), but then i was so excited when i remembered which one it was.

the next one, i knew what it was imme- diately, but it took me a while to find it online. it's so cool when artists highlight other artists.



willcox does it again with william nicholson's book. (okay, i changed the cover to red, but why not?)

artists also fea- ture them- selves! willcox fea- tures an image from the book on the cover.


and manuel robbe has a woman perusing another of his own prints.







but what gives me a cool chill is knowing two of my favorite artists, at different times, sat in the exact same spot, and were each moved to paint it.














and this last is just a hoot: which came first, the poster mocking the women or the women mocking the poster?

oh silly me -- the poster is in the photo!

and only time to go

little rhyme or reason today, other than mystery and color,
and when are mystery and color not enough?

wishing to learn more about this wondrously surrounded verse (from the los angeles county museum collection) i came across an equally wondrous bookstore. (my suggestion? click everything.)

and here's a mystery: is an extraordinary print from one katherine h macdonald. gerrie ran this print back in august '10, which is the same image but clearly another print of it. i found it on an auction site in the UK. i probably went looking for her work after reading his blog, but the big question is.... why have neither of us been able to find anything by her of this level of quality and expertise?! (and only a bare few of lesser quality).

I ASK not riches, and I ask not power,
Nor in her revel rout shall Pleasure view
Me ever, — a far sweeter nymph I woo.
Hail, sweet Retirement!
lead me to thy bower,
Where fair Content has spread
her loveliest flower,
Of more enduring, though less gaudy hue,
Than Pleasure scatters to her giddy crew;
Nor let aught break upon thy sacred hour,
Save some true friend,
of pure congenial soul;
To such the latchet of my wicket-gate
Let me lift freely, glad to share the dole
Fortune allows me, whether small or great,
And a warm heart, that knows not the control
Of Fortune, and defies the frown of Fate.

Henry Francis Cary

want another mystery? so (found on ebay) who the heck is hoobey??! is this some name i made up because i didn't know hoo had done it? but it's quite nice, don't you think? [and we have a winner. the artist is John Hall Thorpe -- thanks, charles!]

and of course it's never a mystery why anyone would want more cuno amiet. his color falls like rain.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon.
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea.
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreath'ed horn.

William Wordsworth 2

and if i may, a little mystery now: who's signature and work is this? i've had it in my files for almost three years now with nary a clue. (signature clarified for clarity.)

and at last perhaps a guess at my methods: in my last dream last night, this morning, everything suddenly went black and white!

and a one... and a two....

marrying bears

THE BEAR WHO MARRIED A WOMAN

Tsimshian

Once upon a time there lived a widow of the tribe of the Gispaxlâ'ts. Many men tried to marry her daughter, but she declined them all.

The mother said, "When a man comes to marry you, feel of the palms of his hands. If they are soft, decline him. If they are rough, accept him." She meant that she wanted to have for a son-in-law a man skillful in building canoes.

Her daughter obeyed her commands and refused the wooings of all young men. One night a youth came to her bed. The palms of his hands were very rough, and therefore she accepted his suit. Early in the morning, however, he had suddenly disappeared, even before she had seen him.

When her mother arose early in the morning and went out, she found a halibut on the beach in front of the house, although it was midwinter. The following evening the young man came back, but disappeared again before the dawn of the day. In the morning the widow found a seal in front of the house. Thus they lived for some time. The young woman never saw the face of her husband; but every morning she found an animal on the beach, every day a larger one. Thus the widow came to be very rich.

She was anxious to see her son-in-law, and one day she waited until he arrived. Suddenly she saw a red bear emerge from the water. He carried a whale on each side, and put them down on the beach. As soon as he noticed that he was observed, he was transformed into a rock, which may be seen up to this day. He was a supernatural being of the sea. 1

• Source: Franz Boas, Tsimshian Mythology (Washington, DC: United States Government Printing Office, 1916), p. 19.

• The Tsmimshian Indians are native to the coastal regions of British Columbia and southern Alaska.

from Song of Myself

1

I CELEBRATE myself;
And what I assume you shall assume
For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my Soul;
I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.

Houses and rooms
are full of perfumes—
the shelves are crowded
with perfumes;
I breathe the fragrance myself,
and know it and like it;
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume—
it has no taste of the distillation—
it is odorless;
It is for my mouth forever—
I am in love with it;
I will go to the bank by the wood, and become undisguised and naked;
I am mad for it to be
in contact with me.

2

The smoke of my own breath;
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine;
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs;
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore, and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn;
The sound of the belch’d words of my voice,
words loos’d to the eddies
of the wind;
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms;
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag;
The delight alone, or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides; The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
have you reckon’d
the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long
to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud
to get at the meaning
of poems?

Stop this day
and night with me,
and you shall possess the origin of all poems;
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun—

(there are millions of suns left;)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead,
nor feed on the spectres in books;
You shall not look through my eyes either,
nor take things from me;
You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself.

3

I have heard what the talkers were talking,
the talk
of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception
than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age
than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection
than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always sex,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction,
always a breed of life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure,
plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Walt Whitman