Sentient in San Francisco – 21 January 2019

This Date in Art History: Born 21 January 1845 – Harriet Becker, a Norwegian painter.

Below – “Evening Interior”; “Pa blekevollen”; “Blatt interior””; “Kone som sir”; “By Lamp Light”; “Drying Clothes.”

Musings in Winter: Robert Frost

“You can’t get too much winter in the winter.”


This Date in Art History – Died 21 January 1914 – Theodor Kittelsen, a Norwegian painter and illustrator.

Below – “Echo”; “Nokken”; “Boy on white horse”; “The Hulder That Disappeared”; “Stooks of Grain in Moonlight”; “The Nix as a white horse.”

A Poem for Today

“The Morning”
by Jo McDougall

As I drove into town
the driver in front of me
runs a stop sign.
A pedestrian pulls down his cap.
A man comes out of his house
to sweep the steps.
Ordinariness
bright as raspberries.

I turn on the radio.
Somebody tells me
the day is sunny and warm.
A woman laughs

and my daughter steps out of the radio.
Grief spreads in my throat like strep.
I had forgotten, I was happy, I maybe
was humming “You Are My Lucky Star,”
a song I may have invented.
Sometimes a red geranium, a dog,
a stone
will carry me away.
But not for long.
Some memory or another of her
catches up with me and stands
like an old nun behind a desk,
ruler in hand.


Contemporary Japanese Art – Rie Kono

Below – “Fortune-telling: The first dream of the year”; “Beyond the rainbow”; “A Spring parade”; “The great news”; “Alphabet sherbet D is dog”; “The garden party.”

Musings in Winter: Pico Iyer

“Like any traveler, I’m always looking for those experiences that are almost unique to any place, and watching films around Alaska of the skies in winter made me want to taste those unworldly showers of light in person.”

Contemporary Hungarian Art – Gyula Szabo

Below – “Little Clown”; “All At Once”; “Girl with Skull (Everlove)”; “Witches”; “Dogma Festival (Garden of Ideologies)”; “Visions.”


A Poem for Today

“Settler’s Creek”
By Patrick Hicks

You’d been gone four months by then,
but we brought you along anyway.

On my back, you rested
riding inside a wooden box.

The idea was to lay you gently
at the water’s surface,

but our clumsy hands spilled you,
and it was hard to tell whether you went head

or feet first, but it didn’t much matter
anyway, I suppose.

You would float on down the creek
until you had reached the next and so on.

My father gave a little wave and joked,
“We’ll see you back on down in Denver, Dad.”

We stood there in silence
listening to you chuckle

under the bridge and over
the first set of riffles downstream.

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