This Date in Art History: Died 19 October 1943 – Camille Claudel, a French sculptor.
Below – “Perseus and the Gorgon”; “Sakuntala”; “The Wave”; “The Mature Age”; “La fortune”; “The Waltz.”
Some quotes from the work of David Vann:
“Each thing that happens to us, each and every thing, it leaves some dent, and that dent will always be there. Each of us is a walking wreck.”
“Even now, I still believe metamorphosis is the greatest beauty.”
“The dead reaching for us, needing us, but this isn’t true. There’s only us reaching for them, trying to find ourselves.”
“Because you can choose who you’ll be with, but you can’t choose who they’ll become.”
“We live through evolution ourselves, each of us, progressing through different apprehensions of the world, at each age forgetting the last age, every previous mind erased. We no longer see the same world at all.”
“A change in those moments, some switch turned off forever, the end of trust or safety or love, and how do we ever find the switch again?”
“Memories are infinitely richer than their origins, I discovered; to travel back can only estrange one even from memory itself. And because memory is often all that a life or a self is built on, returning home can take away exactly that.”
“Origins…They don’t explain us, you know. They never do. Each of us is our own piece of work.”
This Date in Art History: Died 19 October 1945 – N. C. Wyeth, an American painter and illustrator.
Below – “Wash Day”; “Maine Islands”; “A Song of the South”; “View of the kelp beds, port clyde”; Untitled; “The Artist’s Studio.”
This Date in Literary History: Died 19 October 1950 – Edna St. Vincent Millay, an American poet and playwright: Part I of II.
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare.
Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace,
And lay them prone upon the earth and cease
To ponder on themselves, the while they stare
At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere
In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese
Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release
From dusty bondage into luminous air.
O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day,
When first the shaft into his vision shone
Of light anatomized! Euclid alone
Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they
Who, though once only and then but far away,
Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.
This Date in Art History – Died 19 October 1952 – Edward S. Curtis, an American ethnologist and photographer whose work focused on the American West and on Native American people.
Below – “A Navajo medicine man”; “Mandan girls gathering berries”; “Geronimo – Apache”; “Hopi mother”; “Boys in kayak, Nunivak”; “Canyon de Chelly -– Navajo. Seven riders on horseback and dog trek against background of canyon cliffs.”
“Dirge Without Music”
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
Below – Margo Schopf: “Everyone leaves”
Contemporary Moldovan Art – Cozmolici Victoria
Below – “Cocktail”; “wildflowers with mountains”; “summer”; “red armchair”; “Model”; “woman.”
A Poem for Today
By Carol V. Davis
How perfectly he has mastered
the car alarm, jangling us from sleep.
Later his staccato scatters smaller birds
that landed on the wire beside him.
Perhaps the key to success
is imitation, not originality.
Once, when the cat slinked up
the orange tree and snatched a hatchling,
the mockingbird turned on us,
marked us for revenge.
For two whole weeks he dive bombed
whenever I ventured out the screen door
lured by his call: first tricked into thinking
the soft coo was a mourning dove courting,
next drawn by the war cry of a far larger animal.
He swooped from one splintered eave, his mate from the other,
aiming to peck out my eyes, to wrestle
the baby from my arms, to do God knows what
with that newborn.
Below- Andrey V Egorov: “Mockingbirds”