in search of beauty | Richibi's Weblog

sharpening one’s pencil‏

“Cottage and Woman and Goat“ (1885)

__________

“Village Street in Winter” (1865)

Gustave Courbet

__________

having considered that I’ve just spent

hours and days in some of the world’s

finest museums, you’ll perhaps pardon

my ebullience, I’ve never to date

juxtaposed two art works, I think, for

your consideration

but I scream, essentially, at everyone

with whom I visit a museum ever,

juxtapose, juxtapose, juxtapose, it

is the truest path to aesthetic erudition,

should you be so inclined, I call it,

sharpening one’s pencil

having been overwhelmed by very

miracles of art, my mom and I, throughout

our European visit, in, specifically, Bruges,

Ghent, Amsterdam and Frankfurt, the

two above, van Gogh‘s “Cottage“, called

“Farmhouse in Nuenen (La Chaumière)“

at the Städel Museum in Frankfurt, and

Courbet‘s “Village Street in Winter“,

some of, therefore, our last, burn for me

especially bright, standing naturally

together as comparable works of art,

though choosing between them is like

deciding between oranges and apples

but that’s the point, your aesthetic

sensibility says more about you than

it says about art, if you’ll surrender to

that exploration

and like apples and oranges, it depends

on your mood that day

which is also the point

“Farmhouse” for me was a surprise, I’d

never seen this particular, wonderful,

van Gogh, the Courbet, also a wonder,

stuck more to an anticipated style, where

van Gogh‘s more rural settings had never

been for me his most successful, I’ll have

to change my mind about that

we’d visited the Städel for the splendid

Courbet exhibition we saw there the last

time we were there, when he became,

along with Rembrandt – wow, Rembrandt –

one of Mom’s now two favourite painters

right now for me it’s still, maybe, Canaletto,

either of them, or Chagall, Klimt, Schiele,

Monet, Avercamp, Filippo Lippi, and too

many others to really remember, I’ve

given up to merely enjoy

here’s hoping you do too

Richard

psst: click “Farmhouse in Nuenen (La Chaumière)”

and follow the icon to enlarge it (+), for an

alternate, more exact, if I remember, view of

“Cottage“, which I couldn’t copy for this page,

you’ll notice a remarkable difference

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my Amsterdam, November 7, 2013‏

“Canal in Amsterdam” (1874)

Claude Monet

____

in the morning we sit by the large
paned double windows that frame
the masterpiece that sits before our

eyes, beyond a little cement and

wrought iron bridge that crosses

our canal another canal runs

perpendicular and away from us

between a row on either side of

trees, their leaves pale yellow

mostly, from late fall, with patches

here and there, like incidental

brushstrokes, of less vivid, or

weathered, if you like, greens

cobblestone paths along either bank,

charming but precarious, serve

pedestrians, cyclists in their dozens,

and the occasional adventurous car

willing to tackle the more lackadaisical

pace and unpredictability of bicycles,

people and everywhere watery

roadblocks, Renaissance gingerbread

houses hold the fort on either side of

the canvas, geometrically ceding to,

and doing a master class in,

perspective

in the distance, of course, the obligatory

steeple, infallably sounding on the quarter

hour

this morning a flight of what looked
to me like doves, so I’ll call them

doves, to touch up anyway with white

and peaceful thoughts my story, cast

magic by fretting in flocks vertiginously

between the parallel lines of trees, just

ahead of our front row seats

a symphony, I said to my mom, though

for the birds it must’ve been tumultuous,

a rash, maybe, anthropomorphism, but

their tumult has only ever translated for

me as immutably grace

people were taking pictures with their

smartphones, whirling skyward to the

avian poetry

we counted our blessings as we

breakfasted on coffee, bread and

cheese

later we’re off to the Rijksmuseum

to witness other visual wonders

Richard

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we had been talking, a friend and I, about
ashes – after, of course, my tale of Hawaii,
and my sacred purpose there with my
friend Greg around the memory of his
nephew and parents – the preparations
necessary to effect a smooth
transmission from one’s demise to final

disposition, a somber thought for many,

but quite irreversible however, and better

sooner than too late, when bureaucratic

considerations inexorably and

inappropriately apply

to do so had been for her a last-minute
thing, earlier too stark, invisible,

unconsidered, but a comfort, she said,

ultimately, for the process had thus

itself become invisible, seamless, upon

a call the service duly submitted to her

particular wishes, of allowing her to sit by

the body till just before dawn, to avoid the

crush of the suddenly bristling morning,

and the probable indiscretions against

the solemnity of the night

she remembered how she had herself
reverently cast her own husband’s

ashes, told me she had kept some

should she find somewhere else

another garden than the one she

tended now should she ever want

to wander

I spoke of my own ashes, others’ ashes

she had with her husband cast those

of a sole remaining aunt of an afternoon,

from a rock on the seashore as the tide

moved in and out, feasting on sandwiches

and wine, I had seen dolphins dance out
on the ocean when I’d done something
similar myself around other ashes

a boy, a gay guy, she said came walking
before them on the same beach later,
earlier, I can’t remember

what do you mean gay, how did you
know that, I defensively countered

he was walking between two elderly
ladies, she answered without a beat
as though I hadn’t interrupted, holding
a tea service, complete with silverware,
china and napkins

I was glad I’d asked, I thought her
conclusion incontrovertible

her husband thought they’d entered
Alice’s wondrous rabbit hole, I thought
he couldn’t’ve been far off

they asked

the two ladies were his aunts, he replied,

come over from England to commemorate

their sister, his mom

this wasn’t at all a rabbit hole, I thought,

but somewhere immeasurably finer, holier,

transcendent, they would be offering her

remains piecemeal to the rose garden,

there by the water in the sunlight on the

lawn, shaping sweetly their own ideas of

what lay beyond

I’d heard utterly, of course, and ineluctably

there a poem

my friend replenished our wine

we recalled our own departed spirits

Richard

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October 4, 2013

“our best conversations are in our sleep” – the great power

on intimacy

our best conversations are in our sleep

          i was having a dream he said
          you and i were walking in a city where we had never been
          it’s still there somewhere
          i’m going back to find it
          then he pulled my whole body closer
          as much of my skin as his could touch
          and slipped away

the great power

Richard

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October 4, 2013

blog alert: “Wild & Precious Life”

wherein “Wild & Precious Life” describes herself

“My love for poetry is simple but at the same time, hard to

explain. I was drawn to it from an early age however, with

questionable motives. In my young eyes, the appreciation

of poetry personified sophistication, poise and intelligence.

And so I became that nine year old reciting lines from Dylan

Thomas poems even though I had yet to live enough life to

truly understand the deeper themes. But I continued my

poetry admiration, convinced that I looked wise beyond

my years. Believe me, the irony of it is not lost on me now……

And then those life experiences that one needs to truly

understand poetry came knocking, and at times pounding

on my door. Some were welcomed but many were not, but

with them came my true love of poetry.

I now read poetry for a simple and unequivocal reason – it

makes me feel connected to something tangible but at the

same time larger than myself. When I am sad, overwhelmed,

lost, lovelorn, confused, I turn to it. I’ll read a beautiful

composition of words and suddenly realize that I am not

the first or last person to feel such things and that calms me,

gives me hope and makes me feel gratitude.

That having been said, this website is a simple collection of

beautiful words. They are poems, quotes, lyrics and excerpts

that have resonated with me. They are words that have made

me smile, laugh, cry and sometimes simply take pause. I hope

you enjoy the website, lovingly titled [Wild & Precious Life] –

the closing lines of [Mary Oliver’s The Summer Day]:

                  Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
                            Tell me, what is it you plan to do
                  with your one wild and precious life? “

___________________

what I needed to reply

coming from a small town in the middle of

nowhere, I aspired even then to discover

what the rest of the world was thinking,

admired, why had literary giants become

legends, even archetypes, what were the

parameters

poetry ever however seemed especially

sterile, odes, for goodness’ sake, on

Grecian urns, I ask you, I, a budding

person before the unfolding world

abstract art too was pretty questionable,

though I persisted, diligently probing

afield for convincing, manifest, arguments,

the world couldn’t be so wrong

until here and there a bud would blossom,

like “a daffodil offering its cup / to the sun“

I now read poetry just to find out what

      other hearts are thinking

      some say quite wonderful things


      ever the best

     Richard

psst: I’ve subscribed, by the way, to your

“Wild and Precious“ adventure

many thanks

Richard

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September 28, 2013

Sonnet 128 – William Shakespeare‏

Sonnet 128

How oft when thou, my music, music play’st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,
At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more bless’d than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

William Shakespeare

it would not be incorrect to suppose that the

“wood” of which Shakespeare speaks here

is his own and not that of the instrument,

you’ll probably even enjoy the poem more

that way, which is to say for its saucy, not

to mention, unexpected and, ahem,

protracted allegory

you might also note the equally raffish

use of the word “jacks”

enjoy

Richard

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September 20, 2013

“Ghosts” – Henrik Ibsen

of Ibsen‘s plays, “Ghosts” is the only

one that I can ever really tolerate, his

others being entirely always for me

too didactic, preachy

in this brilliant production, riveting and

unforgettable, one I feared I’d never see

again, Judi Dench is again consummate,

as Mrs Alving surely definitive, and

Kenneth Branagh, as her son, nearly as

good, from way back when he still could

act

enjoy, marvel, be verily enlightened

Richard

psst: Henrik Ibsen (1828 – 1906)

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September 15, 2013

“A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night” – Harry Nilsson‏

when I was much younger, and still beset

by the unruly vagaries of love, finding my

way through its thorny thickets, this is

what I’d listen to as I’d fall asleep

Richard

psst: all adagios, you’ll note, each and

every one a lullaby

Harry Nilsson (1941 – 1994)

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September 10, 2013

“A Dog Was Crying in Wicklow Also” – Seamus Heaney‏

the death of a poet is not a happy occasion,

and yet their voices become clearer, it seems,

after their demise, as though the connection

had been stripped of any temporal, or even

corporal, merely, considerations, I talk to my

father, for instance, more directly, and indeed

intimately, than ever I did when he was alive

Seamus Heaney, 1939 – 2013, a poet, even

laureate, died August 30th, but left us with

this beautiful poem he’d written, on the

death of a friend

Richard

_______________

A Dog Was Crying in Wicklow Also

When human beings found out about death
They sent the dog to Chukwu with a message:
They wanted to be let back to the house of life.
They didn’t want to end up lost forever
Like burnt wood disappearing into smoke
Or ashes that get blown away to nothing.
Instead, they saw their souls in a flock at twilight
Cawing and headed back for the same old roosts
And the same bright airs and wing-stretchings each morning.
Death would be like a night spent in the wood:
At first light they’d be back in the house of life.
(The dog was meant to tell all this to Chukwu).
But death and human beings took second place
When he trotted off the path and started barking
At another dog in broad daylight just barking
Back at him from the far bank of a river.
And that is how the toad reached Chukwu first,
The toad who’d overheard in the beginning
What the dog was meant to tell. “Human beings,” he said
(And here the toad was trusted absolutely),
“Human beings want death to last forever.”
Then Chukwu saw the people’s souls in birds
Coming towards him like black spots off the sunset
To a place where there would be neither roosts nor trees
Nor any way back to the house of life.
And his mind reddened and darkened all at once
And nothing that the dog would tell him later
Could change that vision. Great chiefs and great loves
In obliterated light, the toad in mud,
The dog crying out all night behind the corpse house.

— Seamus Heaney, 1995

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September 7, 2013

something creative

(click on the picture should it fail)

“Vase of Flowers, after van Gogh” (2009)

Apollo

____

with my suggestion neatly tucked under
his arm, of asking for it $1200.00, Apollo

set off to sell his painting, “Vase of Flowers,
after van Gogh”, the one which has been
gracing my living room wall for several
years now, a convenient place where he

could store it, maybe even indefinitely,

while he made room for other paintings

the deep rust table, upon which rests the
white marbled vase which holds the
signature sunflowers, matches a somewhat
lighter shade of it on my wall, Burning Bush

it’s called, a colour I chose recently for its

associations with the miraculous, to freshen

up that particular corner

to also see a burning bush every morning,
however metaphorically, as I start my day

not having any idea what it might fairly cost
when Apollo asked for my opinion, something
he couldn’t do by himself for being too intimately
connected, at an opera evening the following
night at my place I asked my three opera guests,
who were sitting, of course, before the very item,
what they thought

the next day in an e-mail I wrote

        “since we’re all, you, me, my mom, Claude
          and Yolande, whom I’ve included in these
          deliberations, in the same position,
          stumped with regard to a price, I thought
          I’d simply put all our uninformed opinions
          together and divide by 5

          Claude,     2000
          Yolande,   1200
          my mom,    700
          me,           1000, recently upped from 800
          you,               ?, which is to say abstention,

so that 5, to be fair,

becomes 4

____

                           4900 / 4 = 1225


          but I’ll accept 1200, should you honour
          my call

          after all, it’s my wall

          love

          me”

“perhaps“, he’d asked, “you can make a suggestion

towards a solution …

…

I’ll hear from you with something creative

as is your usual style“, he’d written from his own

computer in his own idiosyncratic manner, after

the prospective buyer had been up to my place,

viewed dispassionately, I thought, the painting,

though he’d warmly admired my apartment, then

left with Apollo to, ultimately inconclusively at

that point as it turned out, talk cost

I thought I’d been accordingly creative, not

without some commensurate glee

and quivered at what might be the result of my

creation, though the work might, sadly, leave

its now impressive standing on my wall

which I knew, however, Apollo, would never

leave deficient

nor, for that matter, would I

I’m not ready to set a price on it if you can’t

come up with one, the collector had told

Apollo

which left Apollo in a fix, until the

serendipitous $1200.00

this is what Richard said, he told the buyer,

who’d indeed fretted, with noteworthy

consideration, about my having

to lose the painting, unaware that

everything turns to dust, to my mind, little

by little dries up, even in one’s imagination,

if it is to be transformed into other magic

I’d countered that at the right price the

exchange would be a spur to the

burgeoning painter, ready to pursue his

muse with just a little even inspiration,

inspiration an admirer could express in,

notably, dollars

but I’ll discount down to 900, Apollo said,

ceding to his insecurities, since I know you

I’ll buy it for 1000, the man said, I would’ve

payed 2000, and showed him a work they

both deemed inferior for which he’d payed

that much

do not, he said, underestimate yourself,

you are a talented artist

later, looking over the entire transaction,

I asked Apollo, when will you acquire more

than tremulous confidence

I’m working on it, he replied

what about now, I said, you’ll only be an

artist when you call yourself one, own it,

do it, now

okay, he said, today I am an artist, and

raised his arms wide to the open sky,

appropriately, I thought, surrendering

himself, with giddy determination, to

inscrutable heaven

Richard

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Richibi’s Weblog

Category: in search of beauty

November 23, 2013

sharpening one’s pencil‏

November 9, 2013

my Amsterdam, November 7, 2013‏

October 16, 2013

beyond Alice

October 4, 2013

“our best conversations are in our sleep” – the great power

October 4, 2013

blog alert: “Wild & Precious Life”

September 28, 2013

Sonnet 128 – William Shakespeare‏

September 20, 2013

“Ghosts” – Henrik Ibsen

September 15, 2013

“A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night” – Harry Nilsson‏

September 10, 2013

“A Dog Was Crying in Wicklow Also” – Seamus Heaney‏

September 7, 2013

something creative