This Date in Art History: Died 20 February 1992 – A. J. Casson, a Canadian painter: Part I of II.
Below – “White Pine”; “Thunderheads – Pugh Lake Algonquin Park”; “Island – Lake of Two Rivers”; “Autumn Near Bancroft”; “Lake Rosseau”; “Conroy Marsh.”
This Date in Literary History: Born 20 February 1935 – Ellen Gilchrist, an American novelist, short story writer, poet, author of “Victory Over Japan,” and recipient of the National Book Award.
Some quotes from the work of Ellen Gilchrist:
“We live at the level of our language. Whatever we can articulate we can imagine or understand or explore.”
“Everything in the world had happened to them and kept on happening. They didn’t care. They liked it that way.”
“All you have to do to educate a child is leave him alone and teach him to read. The rest is brainwashing.”
“I don’t believe you ever stop loving anyone you ever really loved. You have them there like money in the bank just because you loved them and held them in your arms or dreamed you did. You can forget a lot of things in life, but not that honey to end all honeys.”
“At one level inspiration is the ability to see beauty and mystery in everything men and women do.”
“We cannot get from anyone else the things we need to fill the endless terrible need, not to be dissolved, not to sink back into sand, heat, broom, air, thinnest air. And so we revolve around each other and our dreams collide. Look out the window in any weather. We are part of all that glamour, drama, change, and should not be ashamed.”
“Don’t ruin the present with the ruined past.”
This Date in Art History: Died 20 February 1992 – A. J. Casson, a Canadian painter: Part II of II.
Below – “Oxtongue Lake”; “Diamond Lake”; “Near Bresnahan Lake”; “Oriental Poppies”; “Yantha Lake, Early October”; “The Lake in the Hills, Lake Superior.”
A Poem for Today
by Matthew Arnold
The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Below – “Ediacaran Layers”; “Over the Line”; “View from Silcrete Lodge”; “Winter Hills”; “Desert Plains Study”; “Autumn Vineyard and Cypresses.”
“Spring and Fall”
by Gerard Manley Hopkins
to a young child
Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
Contemporary Ukrainian Art – Igor Lipskykh
Below – “Still Life”; “Sketch”; “Old man”; “Pink”; “Toys”; “Dasha.”
A Poem for Today
“Prayer for the Dead”
by Stuart Kestenbaum
The light snow started late last night and continued
all night long while I slept and could hear it occasionally
enter my sleep, where I dreamed my brother
was alive again and possessing the beauty of youth, aware
that he would be leaving again shortly and that is the lesson
of the snow falling and of the seeds of death that are in everything
that is born: we are here for a moment
of a story that is longer than all of us and few of us
remember, the wind is blowing out of someplace
we don’t know, and each moment contains rhythms
within rhythms, and if you discover some old piece
of your own writing, or an old photograph,
you may not remember that it was you and even if it was once you,
it’s not you now, not this moment that the synapses fire
and your hands move to cover your face in a gesture
of grief and remembrance.
Below – Lawrence Levy: “Harold with hands on face”