Wandering in Woodacre – 26 January 2021

This Date in Art History: Born 26 January 1861 – Louis Anquetin, a French painter.

Below – “Reading Woman”; “Woman at the Champs-Elysees by Night”; “Moulin Rouge”; “Woman with Umbrella”; “Inside Bruant’s Mirliton”; “L’Avenue de Clichy, cinq heures du soir.”

This Date in Literary History: Died 26 January 2014 – Jose Emilio Pacheco, an award-winning Mexican poet, essayist, novelist, and short story writer.

“Tomorrow”
by Jose Emilio Pacheco

At twenty they told me: “You must
Sacrifice yourself for Tomorrow”.

And we offered life up on the altar
Of the god that never arrives.

At the end of things I would like to find myself
With my old teachers from that time.

They would have to tell me if
All the present’s horror truly was Tomorrow.

Below – Kasia Derwinska: “tomorrow Is today’s dream” (photograph)


This Date in Art History: Born 26 January 1877 – Kees van Dongen, a Dutch painter.

Below – “Femme courchee”; “Avenue du Bois de Boulogne”; “Scene de rue”; “Woman with Black Stockings”; “La Baigneuse Deauville”; “Woman with Large Hat.”

This Date in Literary History: Born 26 January 910 – Luo Yin, a Chinese poet.

“Cheering Up Oneself or Self Consolation”
by Luo Yin

When I win, I sing loudly, when I lose, I rest promptly
Woes and regrets are the unending way to sorrow
Today, drink and be drunk, this wine is still mine,
If worries come, as worries will, worry not until tomorrow

A win I sing, a loss I am sullen,
Worries and regrets linger far too long.
If there is wine today, then today get drunk,
Worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes.
(Tomorrow there is time enough to worry)

Below – Torrie Smiley: “Glass of Red Wine II”


Contemporary American Art – Deb Breton

Below – “Date Night”; “Dimming of the Day”; “Flowers by the window”: “Stella Therapy Dog”; “Spring in the Mountains”; “Van Gogh in Wine Country.”


A Poem for Today

“Cautionary Tales”
by Mark Vinz

Beyond the field of grazing, gazing cows
the great bull has a pasture to himself,
monumental, black flanks barely twitching
from the swarming flies. Only a few strands of
wire separate us—how could I forget
my childhood terror, the grownups warning
that the old bull near my uncle’s farm
would love to chase me, stomp me, gore me
if I ever got too close. And so I
skirted acres just to keep my distance,
peeking through the leaves to see if he still
was watching me, waiting for some foolish move—
those fierce red eyes, the thunder in the ground—
or maybe that was simply nightmares. It’s
getting hard to tell, as years themselves keep
gaining ground relentlessly, their hot breath
on my back, and not a fence in sight.

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