Sentient in San Francisco – 13 April 2019

Remembering a Talented Artist: Henrietta Emma Ratcliffe Rae (1859-1928). Rae was an English painter of the late Victorian Era who specialized in classical, allegorical, and literary subjects: Part I of II.

Below – “Mariana”; “Zephyr Wooing Flora”; “Azaleas”; “Spring”; “Psyche before the Throne of Venus.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 13 April 1906 – Samuel Barclay Beckett, an Irish novelist, playwright, short story writer, poet, translator, and recipient of the 1969 Nobel Prize in Literature.

Some quotes from the work of Samuel Beckett:

“The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.”
“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.”
“Don’t look for meaning in the words. Listen to the silences.”
“Perhaps that’s what I feel, an outside and an inside and me in the middle, perhaps that’s what I am, the thing that divides the world in two, on the one side the outside, on the other the inside, that can be as thin as foil, I’m neither one side nor the other, I’m in the middle, I’m the partition, I’ve two surfaces and no thickness, perhaps that’s what I feel, myself vibrating, I’m the tympanum, on the one hand the mind, on the other the world, I don’t belong to either.”
“You’re on earth. There’s no cure for that.”
“Yes, in my life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude, that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.”
“What are we doing here, that is the question.”
“There’s never an end for the sea.”
“I am still alive then. That may come in useful.”


Remembering a Talented Artist: Henrietta Emma Ratcliffe Rae (1859-1928). Rae was an English painter of the late Victorian Era who specialized in classical, allegorical, and literary subjects: Part II of II.

Below – “Spring’s Awakening”; “Hylas and the Water Nymphs”; “Venus Enthroned”; “The Sirens”; “Song of the Morning”; “Roses of Youth.”

This Date in American History: Born 13 April 1866 – Robert Leroy Parker, better known as Butch Cassidy, an American train robber, bank robber, and leader of a gang of criminal outlaws known as the ‘Wild Bunch’ in the American Old West.


This Date in Art History: Born 13 April 1971 – Danie Mellor, an Australian painter and sculptor.

Below – “The Story Place (A History of Two Worlds)”; “Exotic Lies Sacred Ties”; “The Reality of Myth”; “Paradise Garden (Different Country. Same Story); “Materially Cultured (an allegorical scene of a bastard history)”; “A Reflective Moment.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 13 April 1947 – Rae Armantrout, an American poet and recipient of the Pulitzer Prize.

“Thing”
by Rae Armantrout

We love our cat
for her self
regard is assiduous
and bland,
for she sits in the small
patch of sun on our rug
and licks her claws
from all angles
and it is far
superior
to ‘balanced reporting’
though, of course,
it is also
the very same thing.

Below – Jo Potocki: “The Cat Who Slept in the Sun on a Red Rug”


Contemporary American Art – Jan-Woo Prensena: Part I of II.

Below (photographs): “Roh Rainforest II”; “Mystery Couch”; “Vernal Falls I”; “The Whole Family”; “Fontelina I”; “First Stop.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 13 April 1909 – Eudora Welty, an American short story writer, novelist, recipient of the National Book Award, and recipient of the Pulitzer Prize.

Some quotes from the work of Eudora Welty:

“My continuing passion is to part a curtain, that invisible veil of indifference that falls between us and that blinds us to each other’s presence, each other’s wonder, each other’s human plight.”
“The excursion is the same when you go looking for your sorrow as when you go looking for your joy.”
“It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. Yet regardless of where they come from, I cannot remember a time when I was not in love with them – with the books themselves, cover and binding and the paper they were printed on, with their smell and their weight and with their possession in my arms, captured and carried off to myself. Still illiterate, I was ready for them, committed to all the reading I could give them.”
“it doesn’t matter if it takes a long time getting there; the point is to have a destination.”
“One place understood helps us understand all places better.”
“Insight doesn’t happen often on the click of the moment, like a lucky snapshot, but comes in its own time and more slowly and from nowhere but within.”
“Radio, sewing machine, bookends, ironing board and that great big piano lamp – peace, that’s what I like. Butterbean vines planted all along the front where the strings are.”
“A good snapshot stops a moment from running away.”

Contemporary American Art – Jan-Woo Prensena: Part II of II.

Below – “Pirate’s Cove”; “Riverbed VI”; “Fournineteen”; “Hyde Park”; “Wald”; “Beach Life II.”


This Date in Literary History: Born 13 April 1939 – Seamus Heaney, an Irish poet, playwright, translator, and recipient of the 1995 Nobel Prize in Literature.

“Blackberry-Picking”
by Seamus Heaney

for Philip Hobsbaum

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

This entry was posted in Art and Photography, Books, Movies, Music, and Television, Opinion. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply