![(Fred Williams. Beachscape with bathers, Queenscliff IV (1971))
Epiphany IV
(Imants Tillers; my English translation)
May I leave for a brief moment… I was allowed, and I only returned in the evening. No bull, I didn’t want to lie, I forgot myself and my mum, because what I encountered, was stronger than me.
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The sea was stronger. The dunes were stronger, and that whole childish tangled ball I couldn’t untangle. This sense of freedom, primitive and bare-bellied. I forgot to go for lunch, I forgot you can’t make a fire get in the heath, I forgot you can’t sock someone in the nose. If they knocked over your sand castle. I returned dirty and unfed in the evening, and promised from my heart, that I would never behave like this again, but in the morning I awoke: I knew this room, I recognised this fence - one could die here - I was so filled with self-pity. I didn’t lead the chickens out. I observed, how they wandered into the neighbour’s area and stayed there. As if there were different worms or different tomato beds there, from ours. Why did they creep there? But they crept. The neighbour boys were knocking there legs from under them, and gave them pieces of bread stuck on a hook, yet still they crept there. Did that rooster then, leading the chickens into another garden, also think - “just for a moment”? But the raspberries were red and low for the picking, all is an excellent dark green and different than with us, and the flower bed didn’t have a mesh around it.
Once I didn’t return.
Can a drop tell an icicle from which it falls - “one small moment”? Or maybe an arrow can fly for just an instant? That’s how I left.
Cruel? Cruel. But I can’t say anything about that. I know moments that last like days, and days that are brief moments. I have found it so hard to stay myself. With a snag in the river, a river full of stones. I went with the stream. Now I myself am a rock, and she sits on my warm surface and watches the water. Here is warm, the sun shines, here is nice, the linden blossoms, and she dips her bare feet in the water. But the water flows. She definitely feels it. The water flows and shimmers, and glistens in her hair and eyes, and now she will arise and say: “Could I go? Just for a moment…” I know, what that means. She will wade across to the far shore, in the flowers a butterfly will be resting there, it will lift its wings, fly along the bank, fly upstream, fly downstream - it’s all the same really. - surely a drop falling from an icicle can’t fall for just a moment. An arrow in its arc. One cannot.
—-
The Latvian original:
Vai es drīkstu aiziet uz mazu brītiņu… Man atļāva, un es pārnācu tikai vakarā. Esnekrāpos, es negribēju melot, es aizmirsu sevi un māti, jo tas, ko satiku, tas bijastiprāks par mani.
Jūra bija stiprāka. Kāpas bija stiprākas, un no visa tā bērnu kamola es nespēju izķepuroties. Šī brīvības sajūta, pirmatnējā un plikvēderainā! Es aizmirsu iet pusdienās, es aizmirsu, ka nedrīkst uguni laist viršu pudurī, es aizmirsu, ka nedrīkst otram dot pa degunu. Ja viņš ir izārdījis tavu smilšu kūku. Vakarā es pārnācu netīrs un neēdis, es solījos no visas sirds tā vairs nedarīt, bet no rīta pamodos: šo istabu es zināju, šo sētu es pazinu – te varēja nomirt – tāds žēlums par sevi. Vistas es neganīju. Es vēroju, kā viņas ieiet kaimiņu daļā un atpakaļ vairs nenāk. It kā tur būtu citādas sliekas vai citādas tomātu dobes, ko izkārpīt, nekā mūsējās. Ko viņas tur līda? Bet līda. Kaimiņu puikas dauzīja viņām kājas nost, deva rīt uz āķa uzspraustus maizesgabaliņus, un tomēr viņas līda. Vai tad gailis, kas veda vistas citā dārzā, arī nedomāja–„tikai uz mazu brītiņu”? Bet avenes bija sarkanas un zemu pa knābienam, aka viņsētā koši zaļa un savādāka nekā mūsējā, un puķu dobēm nebija apvilkts apkārttīkls.Vienreiz es nepārnācu.Vai piliens var pateikt, no lāstekas atrāvies,-„uz mazu brītiņu”? Vai varbūt bulta var aizlidot uz mazu brītiņu? Tā es aizgāju. Tagad aiziet viņa.Nežēlīgi? Nežēlīgi.–Bet es tur neko nevaru teikt. Es zinu mirkļus dienas garumā un dienas mirkļa īsumā. Man pašam ir bijis tik grūti palikt–ar siekstām upē, ar akmeņiem strautā. Es gāju strautam līdzi. Tagad es pats esmu akmens, un viņa sēž uz maniem siltajiem sāniem un skatās ūdenī. Te ir silti, spīd saule, te ir jauki, zied liepas,un viņa mērc basās kājas ūdenī. Bet ūdens tek. To viņa noteikti jūt. Ūdens tek un vizuļo, un atviz viņai matos un acīs, un tagad viņa piecelsies un teiks: „Vai es varu aiziet? Uz vienu mirklīti…” Es zinu, ko tas nozīmē. Viņa pārbridīs otrā krastā, tur ziedos guļ taurenis, tas pacelsies spārnos, lidos gar krastu, lidos pret straumi, lidos pa straumei – vai nav vienalga. –nevar taču piliens no lāstekas atrauties tikai uz mazu brītiņu. Sniegs no debesīm. Bulta no loka… Tikai uz mazu brītiņu… Nevar taču!](http://25.media.tumblr.com/d22fb0c0c47fe3f462d4b2be9125e2a5/tumblr_mn3frymkDJ1roklcdo1_400.jpg)
(Fred Williams. Beachscape with bathers, Queenscliff IV (1971))
May I leave for a brief moment… I was allowed, and I only returned in the evening. No bull, I didn’t want to lie, I forgot myself and my mum, because what I encountered, was stronger than me.
![(The artwork is Garden of Earthly Delights, 2005, by Raqib Shaw. He had some great works in the APT7 exhibition I saw in Brisbane last December.)
Epiphany III
- Imants Ziedonis (Latvian original; my English translation)
…To go around… of what doesn’t matter - to go around a flower or around the sea. The flower is just as big as the sea. Not to run straight into the sea, not to wade into the flower, not to step into another’s soul, but to go alongside, to go around, staying close. During the day the sea is filled with light, given it by the heavens. At night the sea is full of warmth, which it got during the day. I go along the sea on summer nights, and warmth comes from her. I go along the very shoreline, arms spread out like wings, and I have one hand in earth’s midnight fog and the other - above the sea. That is that, which I call closeness. That IS that.
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I go around the sea on windy nights. Waves come from the sea’s darkness, I hear them, but I don’t see them yet. Then they break, white dashes in the shallows like a laughing row of teeth, and fade, then darkness again. There is no coast nor distance, just the dark without depth, only again and again the dashing white waves shine and murmur. The white row of teeth. The sea’s closeness.
Have you ever searched in a field at night for a hay pile, a haystack? You enter the dark field, stretch your arms out and with outstretched arms listen, to where the warmth comes from. You takes a few paces, and, like children in the childhood game of searching for a secret object, whilst another calls out: - Warm… Hot… Hot… You stretch your hand to the left, and from there comes warmth, big as a haystack. But before I enter this warmth, I circle around the haystack along the invisible border, this sacred halo - along the boundary, where the haystack’s radiance ends. The chef goes around the edge of the pot, around the edge of the plate. For him the food isn’t just the dish, filled to the brim, or the spoonful delicious in the mouth, but the smell drifting over the bowl, a small typhoon of scents in the heavens of the kitchenette.
At times I really dislike it, when I need to enter an unfamiliar property. It is like breaking and entering an unknown soul. So first I circle around the house. Each house has its own radiation, or aura perhaps. Some have only a little of this radiance - here by the window, here by the door. For other homes it floods over the fences, down alleyways - from kilometers away it meets you. The rays extend very far from those homes which have bees. They radiate as far as the bees travel. That is a place of great radiation. Places radiating great goodness. I would take children there for daytime naps. Homes without bees don’t have so much of this radiation. But never mind, as you approach you hear the hen clucking, who has laid an egg. I listen to what she says, and I understand fully: she can’t contain it to herself, this pride - for the egg is so fresh and brown, with tiny markings, and the yolk inside is as bright as an orange.
I still don’t enter the house, I go to the woodshed. Here there is more radiation from the forest, but the smell of sawdust is the last song of the trees, already victims of the rising smoke of the chimney stack.
Thrush is close to birch, stork to oak, the swallows to the eaves, the peonies to the window sills. The house is close, and I go in.
The child is not yet born, but he is close. You are close and soon I will spot you. Be near. Be close. Close by.
Imants Ziedonis
—— Latvian original:
…Apiet apkārt… Tas ir vienalga – apiet apkārt ziedam vai apkārt jūrai. Zieds ir tikpat liels kā jūra. Neskriet taisni jūrā, nebrist ziedā, nekāpt cita dvēselē, bet iet tuvu līdzās, apiet apkārt, palikt tuvu. Dienās jūra ir pilna gaismas, ko tai dod debesis. Naktīs jūra ir pilna siltuma, ko tai devusi diena. Es eju gar jūru vasaras naktī, un no viņas nāk siltums. Es eju gar pašu malu, izpletis rokas kā spārnus, un viena roka man ir zemes pusnakts miglā un otra – virs jūras. Tas ir tas, ko es saucu par tuvumu. Tas IR tas. Es eju apkārt jūrai vējainās naktīs. Viļņi nāk no jūras tumsas, es tos dzirdu, bet vēl neredzu. Tad tie iekrācas, uz sēkļiem iespīdas balta svītra kā smejoša zobu rinda un nodziest, un atkal tumsa. Nav ne krasta, ne tāluma, ir tikai tumsa bez dziļuma, vienīgi atkal un atkal baltas viļņu svītras pamirdz un iešalcas. Balta zobu rinda. Jūras tuvums. Vai jūs esat meklējuši naktī pļavā siena kaudzi, siena stirpu? Tu ieej pļavā tumsā, izstiep rokas un izstieptām rokām klausies, no kurienes nāk siltums. Tu paej vēl dažus soļus, un, it kā bērnu dienās bērnu spēlēs kaut ko noglabātu meklējot, kāds tev saka: - Silts… karsts… karsts… Tu izstiep rokas pa kreisi, un no turienes nāk siltums, liels kā siena kaudze. Bet, pirms es ieeju šajā siltumā, es apeju apkārt kaudzei pa tās neredzamo robežu, pa tās svēto nimbu – pa to robežu, kur beidzas kaudzes starojums. Pavārs iet pa katla maliņu, pa šķīvja maliņu. Viņam ēdiens nav tikai bļoda, līdz malai pilna, vai karote kārā mutē, bet tā smaržu kupena pāri bļodai, mazie smaržu taifūni virtuves debesīs. Reizēm man ļoti nepatīkami, kad tieši jāieiet svešās mājās. It kā ielaušanās vēl nesaprastā dvēselē. Tad vispirms es apeju mājām apkārt. Katrai mājai ir savs starojums, aura varbūt. Dažai šis starojums ir tik mazs – tepat ap logu, tepat ap durvīm. No citām mājām tas plūst pāri žogiem, cauri alejām – vai kilometru tālumā tev pretī. Es eju mājai apkārt pa to neredzamo robežu, kur sākas mājas tuvums. Tālu staro tā māja, kurā ir bites. Viņa staro tik tālu, cik tālu ved viņas bišu ceļš. Tās ir lielā starojuma vietas. Lielā labdabīgā starojuma vietas. Es te vestu bērnus diendusā guldīt. Mājām, kurās nedzīvo bites, starojums nav tik tāls. Bet vienalga, kad tu tuvojies, tu dzirdi kladzinām vistu, viņa ir izdējusi olu. Es ieklausos, ko viņa stāsta, un es pilnīgi viņu saprotu: viņa to nevar paturēt pie sevis, to lepnumu – jo ola tik tiešām ir svaiga un brūna, ar maziem, tumšiem raibumiņiem, un dzeltenums tajā ir tik košs kā apelsīns. Es vēl neeju mājā, es ieeju malciknī. Te vēl valda mežu starojums, bet skaidu smarža ir koku pēdējā dziesma, no skursteņa kāpj jau upurdūmi. Strazdu tuvums bērzā, stārķa tuvums ozolā, bezdelīgu tuvums pažobelē un peoniju tuvums zem loga. Tā mājas kļūst tuvas, un es eju iekšā. Bērns vēl nav dzimis, bet viņš ir tuvumā. Tuvu tu esi, un drīz es tevi ieraudzīšu. Tuvumā būt. Tuvu būt. Tuvu pie.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/6387a4e437fab2b81ebbec5487fadc72/tumblr_mmu6whWHit1roklcdo1_500.jpg)
(The artwork is Garden of Earthly Delights, 2005, by Raqib Shaw. He had some great works in the APT7 exhibition I saw in Brisbane last December.)
…To go around… of what doesn’t matter - to go around a flower or around the sea. The flower is just as big as the sea. Not to run straight into the sea, not to wade into the flower, not to step into another’s soul, but to go alongside, to go around, staying close. During the day the sea is filled with light, given it by the heavens. At night the sea is full of warmth, which it got during the day. I go along the sea on summer nights, and warmth comes from her. I go along the very shoreline, arms spread out like wings, and I have one hand in earth’s midnight fog and the other - above the sea. That is that, which I call closeness. That IS that.
The yellow (fairy) tale by Imants Ziedonis
The sun was shining over the world like an egg yolk. And there was a life in it. Little light yellow chicks were coming to the earth through the sunbeams. Later chicks will be in different colours but at the beginning all of them are yellow. The bee was yellow too with a yellow bee hive. The bee invited the chick into the bee hive but the chick didn’t get into it.
„That’s alright” the chick thought. „There are yellow butterflies flying around and they are just like me, I will fly with them.” The chick jumped trying to fly… but remembered it didn’t have proper wings… just two little yellow stumps on the sides.
„That’s fine too” the chick decided. „I will be a hen one day and then I will fly high, very high.” The chick crawled into mother’s yellow lap and fell asleep.
But the sun was shining in the sky like a yellow pancake with crispy edges.
Bees were flying around like small plasticine balls from one yellow dandelion to another and then returned to their yellow bee hive. The beehive looked like a big yellow library. Bee hive frames were like enormous shelves up to ceiling – all full of cells. But the cells looked like small six-sided TV sets with yellow honey instead of screens.
There were yellow meadows all around with yellow anemones, cowslips and a lot of dandelions. All of the hills were shining yellow. It seemed that the sun was lying at the top of the hill all covered in yellow dandelions. The meadow was shining so bright I couldn’t resist falling into the yellow flowers… So I was all covered with yellow dust.
Then a yellow cow came up and thinking I was a yellow dandelion ate me. So I can’t write anymore.
Translation by Inga Pizane
Illustrations by Viktorija Semjonova
Great to see someone else translating Ziedonis’ writings. Even better - it is illustrated!
This is from a collection of his fairy tales for kids, one for each colour. It was the only Latvian book I appreciated as a child (not that I could read it back then…)
![(Painting: Moonlight, by Vilis Ozols)
Epiphany I
(Latvian original by Imants Ziedonis; my English translation)
It is very early. The sun has not yet opened his eyes. Mother has not begun rocking my cradle. Father has not yet gone to tend the horses. The shoes are having a lie-in, beyond the door, over the threshold, on the paths.
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In the crevices between the floorboards, yesterday is still sleeping. One sighs in the tea towel, and one curses in the fireplace ashes. But the evening sleep succeeds to the morning sleep, and wakens the hat on the table. Hats wake up at the crow of dawn. It is very early. I feel that I am greeted by the hats on the pegs, and now I must go. I don’t even exist yet. I have never walked, never touched a door jamb, never sung in the morning frost. I myself have never seen the sun. They have told me that it rises between the third and fourth cockcrows -or between some other cockcrows, I may have mixed them up- but the hour is near, for the men have stopped snoring in their sleep and the curtains are glowing.
I cross my first threshold, and from something unmemorable and unfelt I pass over into morning fog - this is my childhood.
The sun is still nowhere, it is very bleak, and the path lead into the fog. In the first white of the fog, I spot a well. This I will remember: rowan trees to the left, linden trees on the right, the track hard and well-trodden, with green grass on the edges, and there are no other paths yet. This I’ll remember.
There is water in the well. I lean over the edge, and somewhere in the depth the water is reflecting. I call out “Ah!” I am replied as if by song - the voice echos like a Melngailis* chorale. Above the round, concrete rim is a strange swing. There is a bucket swinging there. What is fetched with it, given that no one is around? Who needs the water down from those depths?
And then the door of the room opens, and my mother comes through, saying: “Soon the sun will rise. And soon you will be my son.”
- Imants Ziedonis
——
Notes: Emilis Melngailis (1874-1954) was a Latvian composer of choral music, a form of music central to Latvian cultural identity.
Latvian original:
Ir ļoti agrs. Saule vēl nav atvērusi acis. Māte nav sākusi manu šūpuli šūpot. Tēvs vēl nav gājis zirgus kopt. Guļ apavi aizdurvē, sliekšņi un celiņi. Grīdas dēļu šķirbās vēl guļ vakardiena. Viena nopūta dus trauku dvielī, un viens lamu vārds dus pavardā pelnos. Bet vakara miegs pārnāk rīta miegā, un pamostas cepure uz galda. Cepures mostas reizē ar gaiļiem. Ir ļoti agrs. Es jūtu, ka mani sveicina cepures uz vadža, un nu man ir jāiet. Es nemaz vēl neesmu. Es nekad neesmu gājis, neesmu skāris durvju rokturus, neesmu dziedājis rīta rasā. Es pat neesmu redzējis sauli. Man teica, ka viņa lecot agros rītos starp trešajiem un ceturtajiem gaiļiem vai starp kādiem citiem gaiļiem, varbūt esmu sajaucis, bet tā stunda ir tuvu, jo vīri miegā ir pārstājuši krākt un sārtojas logu aizkari. Es pārkāpju savu pirmo slieksni, no kaut kā neatminama un nebijuša pāri slieksnim rīta miglā – tā ir mana bērnība. Saules vēl nekur nav, ir stipri drēgni, un celiņš ved miglā. Pirmo miglas baltumā es ieraugu aku. Tātad pirmais ceļš ved no sliekšņa uz aku. To es atcerēšos: pa kreisi pīlādzis, un pa labi liepa, celiņš ir ciets, nostaigāts, zaļa zālīte gar malām, un cita ceļa vēl nav. To es atcerēšos. Akā ir ūdens. Es pārliecos pāri malai, kaut kur dziļumā atspīd ūdens. Es saucu: „Ā!” Man atbild it kā dziedot – balss nāk atpakaļ kā no Melngaiļa kora. Pāri grodiem dīvains šūpulis. Šūpojas spainis. Kas ar viņu smeļ, ja te nav neviena cilvēka? Kam ir vajadzīgs šis ūdens tur dziļumā? Un tad atveras istabas durvis, iznāk māte un saka: - Drīz lēks saule. Un drīz tu būsi man dēls.](http://24.media.tumblr.com/2d3ff319203a4360ea3dbcee52bd861f/tumblr_mmoc7bCAjy1roklcdo1_500.jpg)
(Painting: Moonlight, by Vilis Ozols)
(Latvian original by Imants Ziedonis; my English translation)
It is very early. The sun has not yet opened his eyes. Mother has not begun rocking my cradle. Father has not yet gone to tend the horses. The shoes are having a lie-in, beyond the door, over the threshold, on the paths.
![(Image is an untitled work, by Yinarupa Nangala, a Western Desert artist, though she now lives in Alice Springs)
Epiphany II
(Latvian original by Imants Ziedonis; my English translation)
Pull on a white shirt, and write in the mornings. Write for your youth. Few maintain their compassion until old age. Pull on a white shirt and dig up the soil. Pull on your white shirt and clean the shoes for your mother. Pull on a white shirt when you are without guests. Be alone. Take joy in yourself. “Being alone, I feel endlessly agitated, as if I have suddenly become the most excellent, famous and beautiful person in society” stated some wise one.
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Pull on a white shirt and write for youth. She arrives with a butterfly in her plaits. She is a soprano in the high school choir. And she has white shoes. Something Is wrong. Something is wrong with the hazelnuts. You bang them, and the hazelnuts shed gold dust. Was it like that before?
Have you ever knelt down, facing the sun? I, the beautiful Tartar, did so on the peak of Ai-Petri*, in the wind and the snow, and with me was the sun in my beautiful Tartar eyes. O, dear sun, thanks to my mother and my father, I have a loving heart! Thanks to you, I have a mother and father! We have warm hands, we wake each other up, we warm each other, we gain sight. For how long? How long will we have have sight? For as long as Grieg plays the fable of Solveig*? For as long as salmon swim up the flow of the Amur*, chasing the Ussuri* until they lay their golden eggs in the sand?
You have transparent fingers, and through them I see the sun and pulsing blood. Silver salmon and golden fish-spawn are in your blood. For how long?
Pull on a white shirt, while you are young. And dig the soil. Dig the soil as no one has ever dug it before. The world is hungry for warmth. Yet few maintain their compassion until old age. You have warm hands, but someone else’s are freezing.
Who will touch whom first?
- Imants Ziedonis
Notes:
Ai-Petri - high mountain in Crimea, Ukraine, noted for being windy.
Solveig - Solveig is the heroine from Peer Gynt (music by Grieg, libretto by Ibsen)
Amur - major river in far east Russia, bordering China
Ussuri - a tributary of the Amur
Latvian original:
Uzvelciet baltu kreklu un rakstiet no rītiem. Rakstiet jaunībā. Mīlestību līdz vecumam saglabā retais. Uzvelciet baltu kreklu un rociet zemi. Uzvelciet baltu kreklu un notīriet kurpes savai mātei.Uzvelciet baltu kreklu, kad jums nav viesu. Palieciet viens. Priecājieties par sevi. „Palicis viens, es jutos bezgala satraukts, it kā pēkšņi iekļuvis izcilu, slavenu, skaistu cilvēku sabiedrībā,” sacīja kāds gudrais. Uzvelciet baltu kreklu un rakstiet jaunībai. Viņa atnāk ar taureni bizē. Viņa ir soprāns vidusskolas korī. Un viņai ir baltas kurpes. Kaut kas ir noticis. Kaut kas ir noticis ar lazdām. Tu piesit, un lazdas nokūp zelta putekļos. Vai agrāk arī tā bija? Vai tu esi meties saules priekšā ceļos? Es, skaistais tatārs, to darīju Ai-Petrī virsotnē vējā un sniegā, un blakus bija saule manas skaistās tatārietes acīs. O, lielā saule, pateicies manam tēvam un manai mātei, kas man deva mīlošu sirdi! Pateicies viņas tēvam un mātei! Mums ir siltas rokas, mēs atmodinājām viens otru, mēs atsildījām viens otru, mēs kļuvām redzīgie. Cik ilgi? Cik ilgi mēs būsim redzīgie? Kamēr Grīgs nospēlēs Solveigas pasaku? Kamēr laši kāps pret Amūras straumi, dzīsies Usūrijas strautos un atstās zelta ikrus smiltīs? Tev ir caurspīdīgi pirksti, es redzu tiem cauri sauli un asiņu pulsēšanu. Sudraba laši un zelta ikri ir tavās asinīs. Cik ilgi? Uzvelciet baltu kreklu, kamēr jūs esat jauni. Un rociet zemi. Rociet zemi, kā neviens pirms jums to nav racis. Pasaule ir siltuma izslāpusi. Bet mīlestību līdz vecumam saglabā retais. Jums ir siltas rokas, bet kādam ir nosalušas. Kurš kuram pieies pirmais?](http://25.media.tumblr.com/def75d3f028e651be870e3a0cad19204/tumblr_mmmrqhSFXO1roklcdo1_500.jpg)
(Image is an untitled work, by Yinarupa Nangala, a Western Desert artist, though she now lives in Alice Springs)
(Latvian original by Imants Ziedonis; my English translation)
Pull on a white shirt, and write in the mornings. Write for your youth. Few maintain their compassion until old age. Pull on a white shirt and dig up the soil. Pull on your white shirt and clean the shoes for your mother. Pull on a white shirt when you are without guests. Be alone. Take joy in yourself. “Being alone, I feel endlessly agitated, as if I have suddenly become the most excellent, famous and beautiful person in society” stated some wise one.
Luke Jerram is an artist who has been making glass viruses, and they are pretty awesome. He specifically wanted to make them out of uncolored glass, because so many microscopic images of viruses are falsely colored, either for the purpose of aesthetics or to make them easier to see in the image.
This one is E. coli, which may be one of my favorites. I like it so much because of how incredibly useful it is; we use it in the lab pretty much every week as a little factory for making all the protein we may want. The ability to re-code E. coli’s genetic material may be one of the most useful biology tools we possess. And Jerram’s glass sculpture, while actually an accurate depiction of what this little guy looks like, is also awesome and beautiful!
E. coli is actually a bacteria. But it is still a very pretty and interesting piece of art.
Silent Shout
silkscreen, graphite, & collage
15” x 11”
2013Between making these, making frames, and working on my long gif, I should definitely meet my creative outlet quota this summer!
| — | Livy, 2.42. (Here is a reference to show you I did not make Spurius up). From The Early History of Rome, by Livy, translated by Aubrey de Selincourt. |
Art, Music and the Blue Rider
Time for a plug for my Blue Rider tumblr, which is gradually working through an amplified re-creation of the original Blaue Reiter Almanac (1912) by Franz Marc and Wassily Kandinsky.
We are now up to the first chapter devoted to music, written by everyone’s favourite composer - looks around, nervously - yes, none other than Arnold Schoenberg! So if you are interested in music and/or art, come join in the fun.
“The composer reveals the innermost essence of the world and pronounces the most profound wisdom in a language that his reason cannot understand; he is like a mesmerised sleep walker who reveals secrets about things he knows nothing about when he wakes.”
— Arthur Schopenhauer (as quoted -approvingly- by Arnold Schoenberg in his 1912 Essay The Relationship of the Text, appearing in the Blaue Reiter Almanac)
