Contemporary British Art: Matthew Spencer
Below – “Ghost”; “House at Night”; “Pink Train”; “Summer Holidays”; “Nowhere Hotel”; “Blue Mountains no. 1.”
“I like spring, but it is too young. I like summer, but it is too proud. So I like best of all autumn, because its tone is mellower, its colours are richer, and it is tinged with a little sorrow. Its golden richness speaks not of the innocence of spring, nor the power of summer, but of the mellowness and kindly wisdom of approaching age. It knows the limitations of life and its content.”
Below – Isaak Levitan: “Golden Autumn”
Contemporary Canadian Painting: Patty Beaton
Below – “Light at Last”; “Under Your Roof I”; “Timeless Days V”; “Carolina”; “Through the Field II”; “Orange Bouquet.”
A Poem for Today
By Connie Wanek
We used to play, long before we bought real houses.
A roll of the dice could send a girl to jail.
The money was pink, blue, gold, as well as green,
and we could own a whole railroad
or speculate in hotels where others dreaded staying:
the cost was extortionary.
At last one person would own everything,
every teaspoon in the dining car, every spike
driven into the planks by immigrants,
every crooked mayor.
But then, with only the clothes on our backs,
we ran outside, laughing.
This Date in Art History: Born 28 November 1891 – Mabel Alvarez, an American painter: Part I of II.
Below – “The Artist with ‘Dreams of Youth’ background”; “Dreams in a Forest”; “Flapper with Japanese Umbrella”; “Flowers and Fairies”; “Portrait of a Lady”; “Portrait of a Young Lady.”
“I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like silence, listening
Below – Anna Perlin: “Quiet Autumn Morning”
This Date in Art History: Born 28 November 1891 – Mabel Alvarez, an American painter: Part II of II.
Below – “Seated Figure”; “The Patterned Shawl”; “Adoration”; “Italian Girl”; “Portrait of Armen Nichols #1”; “Self-Portrait.”
by Pat Schneider
“From where I stand”
at the third floor window of the tenement,
the street looks shiny.
It has been washed and rinsed by rain.
Beyond the silver streaks of the streetcar tracks
a single streetlight stands
in a pool of wet light. It is night.
St. Louis. Nineteen forty-seven.
I have just come home from the orphanage
Years later, I will be another person.
I will almost not remember this summer not
at all. But for now with the streetlight
reflecting an aura on the wet sidewalk,
with dark behind me in the dirty
two rooms we call home,
for now, I see it all.
Tomorrow I will begin to try to forget.
But in this moment everything is clear:
who I am, where I am, and the clean place
that I have left behind.
As clear as the streetlight: how distinct
its limits in the vast dark and the rain.