“Benefits Supervisor Sleeping” – Lucian Freud
“Benefits Supervisor Sleeping” (1995)
Lucian Freud
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“Benefits Supervisor Sleeping” (1995)
Lucian Freud
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“Winter Mood”
Leonid Afremov
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the thick application of paint in this painting, impasto,
and the disorder of acid colours in the foreground leaves,
bring to mind Cézanne for me,
and by inference, I guess, the more appealing, I think, Van Gogh
but the Belarusian Afremov, you might find interesting to know,
is from Vitebsk, the birthplace of Chagall,
studied at the school Chagall founded there,
as did incidentally in their times Malevich and Kandinsky also
but the poetry of solitude by which this work touches me so
I find most reminiscent of Friedrich Caspar David‘s “The Wanderer“,
no less iconic a Romantic figure in art than Byron, Shelley, Keats became,
not to mention in Germany Goethe‘s tragic “Werther“, or in France, Victor Hugo
in Spain the much earlier Don Quixote, inspired much later his compatriot Picasso,
whose own lonely horseman is to my mind recalled here,
and in film more recent lonesome cowboys ride instead of on an open range
an empty street through a park in Paris maybe, Dresden, or Toronto
as on life’s journey they find, and we, each our road to follow
thought I’d pass it along
Richard

Sassetta (Stefano di Giovanni)
“The Journey of the Magi“ (1435)
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the sixth of January was the Feast of the Magi,
should you have forgotten, indeed should you have never known,
when the Three Wise Men travelled with gold, frankincense and myrrh
to Bethlehem, to where Jesus had just been born
whatever became of all of it I’ve wondered,
and back when I was learning about it at school,
and how incongruous to be visited by kings
in a life so otherwise cruel
a star, it is said, led the way, low here on the horizon,
shimmering incandescently beside the two birds,
not any less innocent all of these than cherubs
cavorting in celebration of the transcendental birth
Caspar, Melchior, Balthasar, on camels out of the East,
are represented on the more Italianate horses,
along with the equally more Italianate gentry,
to of course reflect Sassetta‘s more Sienese sources
but the pink castles, essentially indiscriminate,
are there, I’m sure,
specifically only to enchant you
happy new year
Richard
they needed to be accessible, I thought, not trite, distinct enough as well to be quickly unforgettable, by definition nearly therefore profound
one described a poet finding intimations of perfection in the song of a nearby thrush, thereby inspiration and an instant recuperative salve
the other takes you into the heart of any poem
both to my mind are brilliant
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You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn’t need any more of that sound.
So if you’re going to do it and can’t
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
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First, forget everything you have learned,
that poetry is difficult,
that it cannot be appreciated by the likes of you,
with your high school equivalency diploma,
your steel-tipped boots,
or your white-collar misunderstandings.
“The Birth of Venus“, c.1482-6
Sandro Botticelli
(1445 -1510)
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this is me at New Year’s Eve, instead of a party after a day of some incidental work, not much but enough to hobble my spirit, I thought a hot bath would be good, maybe even an alternative, at midnight itself, I carried on, it sounded irresistible
I’d light a candle of course, play soft music, Lizst was already on, his “Années de Pèlerinage” – a meditation for piano on his Swiss, Italian pilgrimage – would go on tinkling away peripatetically prestidigitating still for hours, I wouldn’t have to even change a thing
I’d be reborn of course, that was the rationale for not going out, never mind the cold, the snow, for me the late hour, who’d pass after all even for a New Year’s party, I mused, on an outright reincarnation
later I’d make my excuses
meanwhile after a long, hot, indeed gestative soak, in the very womb of earth, in allegorical, I imagined, primal waters, wherein I’d redefine my inner being, redirect of course my errant soul, I could only rise transformed resplendent, I instinctively foresaw, as Venus, specifically Botticelli’s
I arose
a mane of golden hair, neck and profile by already Modigliani, fluted fingers a modest flutter above pert breasts, the others in their clutch a strand of protective locks to shield my innocent, inviolate pudenda
Venus, I thought, goddess of love
to be reflected not only for the moment in my mirror but like a resolution in my heart for the entire year, years in fact, to come
took a picture, hope you like it
and all the very best Richard
psst: only later did I realize there were zephyrs there, they’re there of course, I should’ve known, always
and one of also the Horae – Nymphe, I think, goddess of the morning hour of washing, ablutions – handing me a vernal cloak, a tribute to my season, of course, of spring
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“Narcissus“, (c.1597-1599)
Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio
(28 September 1571 – 18 July 1610)
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in the myth of the beautiful Narcissus, he sees himself reflected for the first time in a pool, sees of course what others see, the surface
but he’s confused, can’t see the forest for the trees, the id for the ego, the true for the superficial he knows quite well is there beyond what he’s been told again and again is beautiful, but that effortlessly and inextricably has always been just himself, just unsuspecting, unassuming Narcissus
to be beautiful, he inquires
he will drown searching
in truth and art
Richard
psst: see also Salvador Dali’s “The Metamorphosis of Narcissus“
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