Stefan Lochner
Stefan Lochner
(1400-1452)
“Madonna in the Rose Bower”
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for Christmas
I wish you faith in angels
Richard
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Richibi’s Weblog
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Category: paintings to ponder
November 18, 2008
falling for Abstraction
“Morning star”, 1940
Joan Miró
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to prize Abstraction you need to feel its value, somehow make it relevant to your well-being, your soul, not an easy task for someone who hasn’t grown up with it, I see the same thing ‘s happened for instance for many with computers, the language is entirely foreign
I remember a sigh of relief, and unexpectedly delight, at the Queen Sofia after slogging through the history of art for a couple of weeks across the street at the Prado, before a roomful of Mirós
the Prado had been dripping in art
the Spaniards of course, Murillo, Goya, Zurbaran, were there, El Greco, the transplanted Doménicos Theotokópoulos, his great elongated figures depicting anguish, torment, ecstasies, edged unforgettably in charcoal black
the cheeky Velazquez – looking you straight in the face, where his subjects, the king and queen, also stand, reflected craftily albeit in a mirror at the back where you’d be too were this a real mirror – is a celebrated self-portrait, majesties no less have acquiesced to be merely backdrop here for the artist’s rendering of himself
and indeed who remembers these once almighty monarchs beside their now immortal subject, their lasting fame assured ironically by virtue mostly of his grace
royal children meanwhile cavort up front, while on the far left taking up most of that side there’s the canvas he’s working on, a brush in one hand, in the other a palette of assorted colours, considering their applicability
a triumph
the Dutch were there, the ubiquitous Rubens of course, the Rembrandts, the van Dycks, the Bruegels, but supreme for me among them was the unearthly rather “Garden of Earthly Delights“, I didn’t expect it there, it was awesome, Bosch representing pictorially the panoply of Christian mythological thought, from Eden to black and ignominious hell through, in the middle triptych, our earth, controversially carnal and cavorting, in pink and azure blue, for our sober edification and delight
and still there were the innumerable, the masterful, Italians
we left the Prado saturated, my mom and I, the Queen Sofia was an afterthought with time left on our hands, we expected nothing other there than baubles, trinkets
but Miró greeted us at the door with a roomful of light, air, fantasy, planets, comets, asterisks swirled in orbits of infinite phantasmagorical invention, fish flew where stars fell, and eyes looked out of spiderwebs, perspective gave way to dimensions
my mom breathed a sigh of relief, simultaneously enchantment, we’d entered another world
just as had in its own time, for that matter, the history itself of art
from there it was just a hop, skip and jump of course to the more abstruse maybe even abstractions of for instance even a Jackson Pollock
imagine
yours in the discovery of art richibi
psst: in thinking of Miró I was reminded of Chagall, he could be he for whimsy, I recalled an ekphrastic poem about a painting of his I thought I might’ve lost, all I could remember was the poem’s own mimetic whimsy, and a blue, I’d thought, violin
here it is
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Don’t let that horse
Don’t let that horse
eat that violin
cried Chagall’s mother
But he kept right on painting
And became famous
And kept on painting
The Horse with Vilolin in Mouth
And when he finally finished it
he jumped up upon the horse
and rode away
waving the violin
And then with a low bow gave it
to the first naked nude he ran across
And there were no strings attached
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November 9, 2008
Diane Arbus – 1923-1971
“Identical Twins, Roselle, N.J.“, 1967
Diane Arbus
1923 -1971
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with the camera the shutter becomes the brush, the art only a click away, the artistry, the creativity, debatable
where is the skill, the ingenuity, indeed the art
the snapshot is a picture of an imagination taken on the spot, the art must be in the very brain, not in, as one would expect, the dextrous fingers, the articulation, the prestidigitation, must be already sorted out, already calibrated, technical prowess not required, just able, artful observation
the shutter will do the rest
can a point of view then, a take, one will reasonably inquire, be art
Diane Arbus had been a fashion photographer, gave it up for something, it would appear, more meaningful, became thereby, in my estimation, unforgettable, broke down for me reservations about photography as art
witness
“Identical Twins, Roselle, N.J.“, 1967, is not about these twins, these unexceptional twins – otherwise merely a portrait, an indifferent even portrait – but about something much more relevant
two little girls in black and white – though this may be itself the kind of photography – look straight into the camera, you look to tell them apart
their little dress adorned by each the same white ruffle at the collar, recalling incidentally the Reformation Dutch, a witty touch, give no clue, they could be matching dolls, flat cut-outs, for that matter, given the minimal use of perspective
a matching hair band, the same hair, the same nose, the same mouth, don’t either, the eyes do but only just
they tell though the entire story, their different light, their different incandescence, though even ever so slight, though ever even so elusive, is what finally tells them apart
but the focus has switched, you’re observing something now immaterial, incorporeal, insubstantial, become simultaneously something mystical, metaphysical, transcendental, some might call God
Michelangelo’s did the same thing for Adam, another much wittier art history touch
two other girls, “Untitled“, 1970-71, speak even more clearly perhaps about this
note the angel come through in the girl on the left, in all its magnificent splendour
“Untitled“, 1970-71
Diane Arbus
1923 -1971
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Diane Arbus committed suicide on July 26, 1971, undoubtedly undone by what she’d sought to witness, perhaps the too bright light
psst: why is it that those who are “Untitled” would never think of taking their own life, perhaps they’ve been blessed with an extra measure of courage
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October 31, 2008
upon being asked to make a poem out of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”
“Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”, c.1558
Pieter Bruegel, the Elder
(1525-1569)
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upon being asked to make a poem out of Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s “Landscape with the Fall of Icarus”
what is a poem, the question came up around my earlier errant composition, was what I’d written a poem, though one could be made out between the, dare I say, ivied even cracks
something that rhymes, my mom answered when I asked, which mine of course didn’t
though mellifluous and rhythmic maybe, and peppered here and there with inventive and artful devices – metaphors, alliteration, onomatopeia, the like, the meat and potatoes, the very stuff, I think, of poems – I still didn’t rhyme, don’t rhyme, and run a sentence on mostly much too long for a proper pentameter
like, I guess, a prose poem
or maybe even just prose
but about the Bruegel
at the back a radiant sun dominates the picture, sheds not only light but life on everything, the sky is thick with grays and blue and takes on actual dimension, whereas a more silken application of paint to the sun makes that orb evanescent, a portal into heaven, a source instead of a force, an opening instead of an engine
in the foreground a farmer ploughs his field, another tends his sheep, life is going on despite the splendour
no one notices Icarus either, the flailing figure in the waves, bottom right, drowning, despite the might of the myth, the potency, the poignancy, of the poetry
but who notices even poetry
across a stretch of water to the horizon and to at its edge the resplendent sun, ships with sails, indeed medieval galleons, sit in the placid harbour of a city in the blue crook of, upper left, a range of mountains, the City of God of Augustine maybe for its iridescent pastels, for its sunlit gold maybe the gilded Greek Atlantis
above the flailing Icarus a ship is setting joyful sail out towards the promise of the blazing sun, the way seems clear
there will be other, it appears, Icaruses
medieval caricaturization and perspective inextricably of course obtain throughout
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October 22, 2008
ekphrasis
ekphrasis
poring among the possibilities the nearby university had to offer – they’re listed in a catalogue they seasonally send around – one on poetry, of course, how to make one out of a painting, stood out, how to make of something visual, a Monet, a Van Gogh, a Renoir, a poem
ekphrasis, there’s a word for that, I thought
and ate it up
the picture I got to ekphrase, my word for that, was one of a set the teacher sent around of Kobayashis, snapshots, I’d never heard of him, her, either, Milt Kobayashi, all of them intriguing
I quickly snapped one up, letting my instinct instead of my judgment pick it out – I find it’s usually more accurate – in order to keep the ball rolling, not slow things up
a waif in especially blue, the colour also of chairs behind her – like skies in winter, I thought, when the pressure’s up and the light is pale, colours aren’t crisp but muted – making that sort of association, hoping that wouldn’t be unintelligent
rudimentary roses, wine red, spotted here and there her blue skirt, more like patches than ornamental flowers, a black top the colour of her jet black hair was cut low in a U at her neck, she leaned against a wall, itself nondescript, at the right of the picture, her left, far to that side, and in her own black shadow there splashed upon the wall, a fathomless apparently abyss, seemed to find refuge, a respite, like a womb, pushing herself and it nearly right out of the picture
her arms were crossed, but one reached for her shoulder, lightly resting there, covering inadvertently, or not, her chest, and by my inference her soul, her modesty, her bosom, whereupon, like Michelangelo’s God touched Adam, with love, light and understanding, inadvertently again or not, she touched mine
and her black, plaintive eyes were looking right back
there’s next to nothing on the spartan walls, the table is somewhat set, but light reflected off some glasses there, and dishes, is gleaming, like in Dutch still lifes, artfully, and delightfully
“The Last Table” it’s called, though I’m not too sure what that’s about, a waitress calling it a day, a playful reference somehow to da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” maybe
that’s what I’d have to make into a poem, ekphrase
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May 31, 2008
finding miracles
these earlier “back tracks“, of which the following is one example, are pieces I consider still to be worth your while
please enjoy
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November 9, 2006
this has been a year of only a clutch of miracles
of course they always abound, but some years, beset by crushing ordeals, miracles seem few and far between, and pale and falter beside the anguish and despair you suffer
yesterday I marvelled at the colours of the leaves, the reds, the golds, the purples, that still and magnificently clung to the branches of much thinner trees now that they had lost the weight and splendour of their foliage
the sun upon the colours made them quiver, gleam, glimmer
look, I told my walking mate, a painting, and spread my arm across the panoply that contained what I saw
Monet, he replied
indeed, I said, but also Klimt, the gold, the glitter
I could barely listen on for the wonder
and Van Gogh for the branches, I continued, caught up in my world of live Impressionism, crotchety, angular, mad, I described
and there are millions of these leaves, I went on, transported beyond Impressionism into verily awe, not two of them alike, an infinity of numbers
that’s a miracle
a day earlier a friend had come over to lunch, after which we’d amble on over to the art gallery for an exhibit that was on
a gull sat on the ledge of my window, at my aerie on the twelfth floor
maybe it’s your father, she said
maybe, I replied, but couldn’t then and there make the connection
it stayed long enough for her to mention it again after I’d gone on for some time more, she was facing the window, I was not, I’d returned to our conversation
the gull looked in, on, curious, spirited
but I still saw just a gull
last evening I remembered that it would’ve been my parents anniversary had my father survived, called my mom, asked her out, we had dinner nearby, the date had slipped me by
later still I remembered about the gull, who perhaps had not forgotten
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May 17, 2008
yesterday – December 28,2006
Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window, 1657
Johannes Vermeer
(1632-1675)
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these earlier “back tracks“, of which the following is one example, are pieces I consider still to be worth your while
please enjoy
_______________________
December 28, 2006
yesterday for the first time it snowed, as I left the apartment a light but steady moisture began to fall that I suspected might be more than rain, sure enough by the time I´d walked the several minutes to the number 8 which would take me to the Old Masters Picture Gallery, the Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, in the Zwinger, snowflakes swirled about us like whirling dervishes, light in the flustered air and as merry and playful as the season
I hopped the Strassenbahn, the tram, which sleekly sailed us along to, then a short length of, the river, which was shrouded there by thickets of trees, but as we turned onto the bridge, the Augustusbrücke, the stately steeples and spires of the Altstadt appeared magically transformed into the enchanted setting of a fairy tale, sprinkled with the dancing fairy dust of the very Brothers Grimm
I got off beside the Catholic Cathedral, St Trinitatis, built in 1738 to 1755, heavy with age, light with spirit, its saints and significant clergy standing watch along the balustrade that lined and determined its roof, surely the bells were ringing but I can´t say for certain, the music was all in my eyes
across the cobblestone square before the Semperoper – the Opera House that Gottfried Semper built between 1838 and 1841, rebuilt from 1871 to 1878 by his son after it burned down in ´69 – people were scurrying about, taking pictures, catching their own trains, while flanking the building´s entrance Goethe and Schiller stood watch, impervious and staunch, beneath the steady and playful flakes, they bore the white frost upon their shoulders and pates with patience and resignation
further along the walls but protected by the shelter of each their private stone niche, Sophocles and Shakespeare to one side, Euripides and Molière on the other, sat soberly watching, unruffled, the snow fall
next door the Zwinger warmly awaited, I checked my coat and scarves with the hat check girl I´ve befriended there, she eagerly announced to the others that I was her friend, I´m sure I smiled and blushed, then made my way to the section I was exploring that day
of the many paintings in a room I always choose the one that I would like to take away more than any of the others, that way I need to examine them all, sometimes even closely
yesterday I quickly passed on a Cornelis Corneliszoon van Haarlem, “Venus, Bacchus and Ceres”, all heavy-haunched and cornucopian, a bird concert complete with sheet music in the trees by a Melchior de Hondecoeter no less, I spent some time with Mathias Stom´s “Old lady with a Candle”, which seemed to owe a lot to Rembrandt or he to him, with Jakob Isaacksz Ruisdael´s “The Hunt”, a dark but stirring landscape with a huge tree dominating the centre and reflected subtly in a river that rippled at its root, a deer was trying to flee across the foreground hunters approaching
a couple of Vermeers were of consequence, one, “The Procuress”, a madam in other words, accepting guilders from a group of men, one of them being so bold as to fondle her breast, left me surprised at so untypical a work of his, but another of a girl reading a letter at a window, replete with his tapestries and textures and a more modest and composed young woman intent on the message that she held, was nearly my first choice, her soft reflection in the open latticed windowpane was genius
but a Salomon de Bray, a name unknown to me, had painted in the mid sixteen-hundreds a young man with a crown, but of black roses, the youth could not have been very old, an open mouth spoke of being still eager and curious, age shuts men up and makes them open up only to declare, propound, pontificate
he´d turned to one side so that his neck was lithe and swift, probably alert to a sudden sound, a staff he held in strong but still supple hands suggested he was a wanderer or a shepherd
a white undershirt was mostly buttoned up but a string had not been tied at its neck, its either ends hung loose above another darker red shirt, equally not quite fully buttoned, there was no suggestion of a breast but only the soft spread of the clavicles
I would´ve taken him home
the crown of roses of course sported thorns in fresh, clean, but unguarded hair, the reference was unmistakable
from a window I watched the thick snow still fall, the ground was covered, but left were the precise lines of the pristine architecture under the icing that outlined its edges
the sages and the deities at the Zwingers own many parapets looked timelessly, unswervingly, on
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though the Old Masters Picture Gallery, die Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, will not allow transfer of their artworks to personal blogs, their entire collection is available through their own website, which I’ve linked you to here, click “Online-Gallery” at the home page, there under Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister click “motivliste anzeigen“, “show collection“, make your way through the 64 “Seiten“, “pages“, of masterworks
thoroughly enjoy
yours in timeless art richibi
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May 4, 2008
C*r*s*mas greetings from Dresden, December 24, 2006
“View of Dresden from the Right Bank of the Elbe with Augustus Bridge”
(1748)
Bernardo Bellotto
1720 – 1780
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these earlier “back tracks“, of which the following is one example, are pieces I consider still to be worth your while
please enjoy
_______________________
December 24, 2006
through the good graces of a dear friend, a lady I met last year, my teacher in German at the Goethe-Institut, I´ve been afforded the wonderful opportunity of spending the next several weeks, while she is away with her family in their hideaway in rural Belgium, here in shimmering Dresden, the jewel, I´m sure, of central Europe, I´d already rendered her the use of my own apartment in Vancouver when in September she came to visit and I could use my mom´s place while she was away touring for most of the month the Iberian peninsula, Spain, Portugal, as well as, across the strait, Morrocco
Dresden celebrated its eight hundredth anniversary this year and, though its buildings don´t date back that far, much of it has worn its architectural robes several centuries, the Zwinger, Dresden´s answer to Versailles, was built from 1609 to 1611, I was yesterday informed as I marvelled at the Bernardo Bellottos, Canaletto the Younger, the Elder´s nephew, who was court painter there, I believe I understood through a charming attendant´s perhaps too rapid German, and whose views of the city then were as detailed and precise as his uncle’s famous masterpieces of Venice, their styles are indeed so similar that until recently I´d believed, to my great embarrassment when I found out they were not, that they were one and the same, that the uncle had spent time in both Dresden and Warsaw, which he had not, the nephew rather had, I inadvertently discovered in a book I read on Dresden that cleared everything up, the one had superseded the other, channelled him there, more darkly perhaps due to those cities’ darker tones, but not at all less brilliantly
not only the Canalettos of course but many other masters adorn the Zwinger, the city´s most sumptuous art museum, the Madonna of the Sistine Chapel of Raphael (which you’ll find below) with its couple of attendant cherubs for instance holds a place of the highest honour, and during the past couple of days I took in a wonderful exhibition of Cranachs there, both the Elder and the Younger, was mightily impressed by the latter´s “Adam” and “Eve”, which tall, naked, and still innocent beneath their modest leafy branches, graced either side of a doorway that led onward through a row of precisely positioned doors partitioning a long narrow corridor into a series of smaller rooms that seemed infinite, like a mirror reflecting itself in a mirror, in a rich burgundy throughout
but on the opposite side in the next room behind the “Eve”, a demure and elegant St Catherine stood large as life leaning upon her eponymous wheel while before her she held upright a heraldic sword whose blade rested on the pebbled ground, a work of the Elder Cranach
her medieval robes were golden, as was her headdress and hair, a prim plaited bodice attested to both her youth and modesty, her eyes shy and discreet gazed softly on the beholder and upon, as in all timeless art, I´m sure, infinity
I would´ve taken her with me but am caught up in the fleeting here and now
Dresden itself is of course much reconstructed after the scandal of its destruction, quite equal I would think to the ravages of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, its center lies across the Elbe, the river that runs through the town, from the Neustadt, the New City, so called already several centuries ago
in the Altstadt, the Old City, there along the river´s opposite bank beyond the several bridges, are the exquisite Baroque structures, churches and palaces and stately buildings, that make up her glory
in the evening as the city lights are reflected in the meandering river the shimmering city achieves the quality of high art, a tribute through the ages to the very best in culture and civilization
it hasn´t snowed here yet, already on December the 24th, Christmas won´t, it appears, be white, it´ll nevertheless be for me quite special as is evident I´m sure in my attitude of awestruck reverence
may it be as well for you, may it be happy, healthy and thoroughly blessed
with all my heart
Richard
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April 20, 2008
dinner out
The Birth of Venus, c.1482-1486
Sandro Botticelli
(c.1445-1510)
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these earlier “back tracks”, of which the following is one example, are pieces I consider still to be worth your while
please enjoy
____________________
dinner out:
the night was clear, a slender moon shone in an indigo sky, I thought instead of staying in and watching Rock Hudson, Doris Day, Tony Randall, and a gay-as-a-goose Paul Lynde in “Pillow Talk” in German I´d venture out instead the day after all after Christmas to find a place to eat, preferably something Italian, I had in mind a restaurant I´d visited when I’d been in Dresden last that might be open, it was
a place for one, I asked somewhat meekly, if you have one, and pointed to a table in a corner that seemed unoccupied, I´d worried about reservations on the special occasion that was that night, but the table was free, and rendered somewhat grudgingly, I suspected, where a couple at least would´ve been more, to their mind, worthy
I sat at a table that could’ve been cleaner, whisked it off with a brush of my hand, a candle on the checked red and white tablecloth in the very colours of Christmas in the otherwise dim light made me overlook the slight if unconscionable inconvenience
cutlery arrived and a soft but sturdy napkin, on a silver platter no less, that I felt would duly resolve the remiss, I spread the serviette, folded primly under, on my lap, sipped an excellent Valpolicella while I waited for the main service, a green salad that I would have, I asked, in concert with the fettucine, not on the same plate of course, I had to explain, but that I would enjoy at its side, a delicious pasta with salmon and yellow asparagus in a light cream sauce
I was left to my own private devices, the restaurant was full, the staff busy, I savoured the endives, the steaming and succulent main course, indifferent to the indifferent service, but precise nevertheless about a second glass of wine
out of nowhere, or out of a fantasy perhaps, once many of the early diners had departed and many of the tables had been cleared, a woman, or rather a vision, had arrived, was seated across from me alone at her own private table, I was entranced, I rarely see women eat alone in any even moderately elegant restaurants, they´ve always expressed fear and modesty, I´ve always thought that so impractical
she seemed alone, so conscientious, so present yet so dependent upon the courtesy and good will of her suitors, whoever they might turn out to be, I saw Botticelli´s Venus being born from the waters, aquiver but unaware yet of any possible adversity
the waiter, an older gentleman, who´d been merely polite to me, tended attentively to her graces, she opened to him a defenseless smile trusting his recommendations, she turned her neck, nubile as a swan´s, back to the menu´s pages pondering them closely as though they were priceless art, pointing out with a querying finger an item, hoping tentatively for clarification
he was of course obsequious
later she sipped her wine, tasted her food with elegance, poise, poetry
I watched mesmerized
what should I do, what should I say, I wondered, should I let the moment pass, knowing full well that I could never tell this story if I were simply to walk away
I practiced my German rendition as I savoured my second glass of red wine, the waiter had taken my fee, been politely inquisitive about my whereabouts, Vancouver, I of course replied, on the Canadian Pacific, where they´ll soon hold the Winter Olympics, so far from home it´s a surprise to find that some have no idea
I sipped my last drop, stood up, but the server had returned to her table, I sat back, waited for him to move away
I left my coat at my table, boldly crossed over to her side, excuse me, I started in German, entschuldigen Sie mich bitte, if I could have a moment of your time, German, French, English, I will speak what I must, but I suspected that so bold an apparition would speak English, my muses would have created that, or maybe some arcane but serendipitous nevertheless cultural affinity
I don´t wish to offend you, I said, and I´ll be gone in just a moment, but I´ve seen you, watched you from my distance eating all alone the day after Christmas, I think I´m something of a poet, I´ve seen your grace, your poise, your poetry, you are a poem to me, I needed to tell you that, I thought this would bring you some enjoyment, I hope you will forgive me if I´ve been too brash
thank you, she said, thank you, her eyes gleamed, shimmered, her hair soft, I´m sure, as sunlight, glowed in the golden candlelight, I noticed her russet freckles
I took my leave, turned my back to her as I donned my scarves and winter coat against the winter cold, moved towards the door
I waved a last goodbye, she waved back
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April 10, 2008
Raphael – The Sistine Madonna
Sistine Madonna, c.1512-1514
Raphael
(1483-1520)
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in my search for what is beautiful, in my unending, my unyielding quest for the sublime, I’ve come upon many things that ‘ve been awesome, before the Venus de Milo I trembled, stood silent, reverent before her incandescent aura, in consternation before her shimmering grace, marvelled that time alone, I supposed, and magnificence could so irradiate, create actual energy
in Dresden the Sistine Madonna did the same, the only other work ever to so palpably illuminate
during the late Beethoven string quartets I cried, especially the fourteenth, but who wouldn’t, they are masterpieces
on first looking into Homer I confirmed indeed the promise of Keats, nearly subscribed to the gods of Olympus, would’ve converted to their convincing myths, but Proust finally remains my true religion, the reflection of all I believe, the poet aspiring to be a philosopher, the philosopher aspiring to be a poet, where Truth and Beauty inextricably intermix, interweave and inspire
for a while I had my doubts, art, music, literature seemed seductive enough, even important, but not urgent, not necessary, there would be life without art, I rued, but hadn’t been able to pursue it further
then in a revelation someone somewhere said, without art there would be no civilization, and I regained forthwith my faith
earnestly I’ve returned to its service
yours in art richibi
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Richibi's Weblog 