This Date in Art History: Died 18 October 1956 – Yoshio Markino, a Japanese watercolor artist who from 1897 – 1942 was based in London: Part I of II.
Below (titles uncertain) – Chelsea embankment; the Thames; lodging house in Sydney Street, London (not stylistic similarities to some nighttime views in Edward Hopper’s work); Earls Court Station; the lake by Earls Court; a wet day on Sloane Square; Cale Street Chelsea.
This Date in Literary History – Born 18 October 1948 – Nozake Shange, an award-winning American playwright, poet, and author of “For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suitcide/When the Rainbow Is Enuf.”
Some quotes from the work of Nozake Shange:
“Creation is everything you do. Make something.”
“I’m a firm believer that language and how we use language determines how we act, and how we act then determines our lives and other people’s lives.”
“I write for young girls of color, for girls who don’t even exist yet, so that there is something there for them when they arrive. I can only change how they live, not how they think.”
“Where there is a woman there is magic. If there is a moon falling from her mouth, she is a woman who knows her magic, who can share or not share her powers. A woman with a moon falling from her mouth, roses between her legs and tiaras of Spanish moss, this woman is a consort of the spirits.”
“Our society allows people to be absolutely neurotic and totally out of touch with their feelings and everyone else’s feelings, and yet be very respectable.”
“My spirit is too ancient to understand the separation of soul & gender.”
“And this is for Colored girls who have considered suicide, but are moving to the ends of their own rainbows.”
Below (titles uncertain) – reading in Kensington Gardens; outside in South Kensington; the Brompton Oratory; the Carlton Hotel; Thistle Grove; Fulham Road.
A Poem for Today
“Breakfast for Supper”
by Christine Stewart-Nunez
At IHOP, after the skinny brunette
with a band-aid covering her hickey
comes to whisk away burnt toast,
Mom mentions Theresa, face
brightening. She had a dream
about her—80s flip hair, smooth
complexion. I’ve been living
in Tulsa for eighteen years,
Theresa said. I understand.
Even as I watched men lower
her casket, I fantasized the witness
protection program had resettled her.
How funny we look, mother
and daughter laughing over
scrambled eggs, tears dripping
onto bacon, hands hugging
coffee mugs. For a moment Mom felt
Theresa there. Such faith. Freshen
your cup? the waitress asks me, poised
to pour. Cloudy in the cold coffee,
my reflection. I offer the mug.
Below – Olinda Camelo: “Cup of Coffee”
Below – PAINTINGS: “Covid 19”; “Wharfs in Mar Minor”; SCULPTURE: “Diana the Huntress green”; “Diana”; “Diana the Huntress golden”; “Checo.”
This Date in Literary History: Died 18 October 1980 – Edwin Way Teale, an American writer, naturalist, photographer, author of “North with the Spring” and “Wandering Through Winter,” and recipient of the Pulitzer Prize.
Some quotes from the work of Edwin Way Teale:
“Our minds, as well as our bodies, have need of the out-of-doors. Our spirits, too, need simple things, elemental things, the sun and the wind and the rain, moonlight and starlight, sunrise and mist and mossy forest trails, the perfumes of dawn and the smell of fresh-turned earth and the ancient music of wind among the trees.”
“Those who wish to pet and baby wild animals ‘love’ them. But those who respect their natures and wish to let them live normal lives, love them more.”
“Reduce the complexity of life by eliminating the needless wants of life, and the labors of life reduce themselves.”
“If I were to choose the sights, the sounds, the fragrances I most would want to see and hear and smell–among all the delights of the open world–on a final day on earth, I think I would choose these: the clear, ethereal song of a white-throated sparrow singing at dawn; the smell of pine trees in the heat of the noon; the lonely calling of Canada geese; the sight of a dragon-fly glinting in the sunshine; the voice of a hermit thrush far in a darkening woods at evening; and–most spiritual and moving of sights–the white cathedral of a cumulus cloud floating serenely in the blue of the sky.”
“The difference between utility and utility plus beauty is the difference between telephone wires and the spider web.”
“Nature is shy and noncommittal in a crowd. To learn her secrets, visit her alone or with a single friend, at most. Everything evades you, everything hides, even your thoughts escape you, when you walk in a crowd.”
“Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change.”
“To those whom the tree, the birds, the wildflowers represent only ‘locked-up dollars’ have never known or really seen these things.”
“A man who never sees a bluebird only half lives.”
“The city man, in his neon-and-mazda glare, knows nothing of nature’s midnight. His electric lamps surround him with synthetic sunshine. They push back the dark. They defend him from the realities of the age-old night.”
“It is easier to accept the message of the stars than the message of the salt desert. The stars speak of man’s insignificance in the long eternity of time; the desert speaks of his insignificance right now.”
“The seasons, like greater tides, ebb and flow across the continents. Spring advances up the United States at the average rate of about fifteen miles a day. It ascends mountainsides at the rate of about a hundred feet a day. It sweeps ahead like a flood of water, racing down the long valleys, creeping up hillsides in a rising tide. Most of us, like the man who lives on the bank of a river and watches the stream flow by, see only one phase of the movement of spring. Each year the season advances toward us out of the south, sweeps around us, goes flooding away to the north.”
Below (photographs/digital painting) – “Elephant”; “The Lion Queen”; “Colorful Woman“; “Tea Leaves.”
Contemporary Canadian Art – Julia Hacker
Below – “On the wild side.2”; “Boats”; “On the wild side.5”; “Seasons Maturity.”
by Minnie Bruce Pratt
Leaving again. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be
grieving. The particulars of place lodged in me,
like this room I lived in for eleven days,
how I learned the way the sun laid its palm
over the side window in the morning, heavy
light, how I’ll never be held in that hand again.
Below – Zilia Zamanova: “Portrait in front of the window”