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Tag: van Gogh
September 7, 2013
something creative
“Vase of Flowers, after van Gogh” (2009)
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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
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
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”
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
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
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
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
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,
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
April 16, 2013
“Mrs Dalloway”
if you’re not afraid of Virginia Woolf
you might enjoy “Mrs Dalloway“, the
film version of one of her novels,
introspective, discreet ever, and
only carefully and politely ever ardent,
you might enjoy “Mrs Dalloway“, the
film version of one of her novels,
introspective, discreet ever, and
only carefully and politely ever ardent,
existentially awash in civilities, with
feeble only attempts at philosophically
sounder, maybe, positions, all ultimately,
of course, inconclusive, an aristocratic
inversion of Van Gogh, but with statelier,
which is to say, more opulent,
surroundings and, of course, corollary
attendant pretensions, all of it, incidentally,
marvelously filmed
the performances are all first rate, with
the performances are all first rate, with
Vanessa Redgrave being, as usual,
wrenching performance, one you’re not
likely to soon forget, one pointedly at
odds with the gentried airs of the rest of
the story, a terse, and damning, Woolfian
comment, who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf
indeed, the institutionalization of
murderous insensitivities, and the
consequent blight of the blunting
of love
nor did Virginia Woolf survive her own
condemnation, of course, famously
taking her own life in 1941
all the other performances here are
impeccable, up, admirably, each, to
the illustrious task
I could’ve done without the two
I could’ve done without the two
time periods, however, Virginia Woolf,
the wordsmith, had it all going in her,
which is to say, Mrs Dalloway’s,
sedentary head, leading up to her,
their, climactic party
may Septimus Warren Smith meanwhile,
and all others like him, rest ever in
ascendant, and proliferating, peace
Richard
Richard
January 14, 2010
“Winter Mood” – Leonid Afremov
“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
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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March 11, 2008
van Gogh – Still Life with Earthenware and Bottles
Still Life with Earthenware and Bottles, 1885
Vincent van Gogh
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several weeks ago I was shown a process on the Internet that allowed me to set most any picture I could bring up from the web as my desktop, rather of course than the usual, generic stuff that is by default peddled, I of course sought out art
should you want to do this, find of course the picture, google it, artist naturally optional, van Gogh, Monet, mostly come up but these two are nearly inexhaustible, very often breathtaking, and will adorn serenely, sublimely, your monitor, turning it into a veritable vase for some time
you’ll grow from there, in diversity of artists, and aesthetic verve
find the picture, even this one, click once on the right with your mouse, much like Dorothy did her shoes in “The Wizard of Oz”, click again, but on the left this time, on “Set as Background”, like magic
change your artwork regularly
this week this van Gogh starts up my gallery, “paintings to ponder”, I’ll call it
poems also coming up
hope you’ll enjoy
richibi
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