Sad at nothing except being in the world.
— Karl Krolow
To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion. All in one.
— John Ruskin
Statue of Aphrodite (?), circa 350BC
Statues by Giacometti, 1960
Examine for a moment an ordinary mind on an ordinary day. The mind receives a myriad impressions — trivial, fantastic, evanescent, or engraved with the sharpness of steel. From all sides they come, an incessant shower of innumerable atoms; and as they fall, as they shape themselves into the life of Monday or Tuesday, the accent falls differently from of old; the moment of importance came not here but there; so that, if a writer were a free man and not a slave, if he could write what he chose, not what he must, if he could base his work upon his own feeling and not upon convention, there would be no plot, no comedy, no tragedy, no love interest or catastrophe in the accepted style, and perhaps not a single button sewn on as the Bond Street tailors would have it. Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end. Is it not the task of the novelist to convey this varying, this unknown and uncircumscribed spirit, whatever aberration or complexity it may display, with as little mixture of the alien and external as possible? We are not pleading merely for courage and sincerity; we are suggesting that the proper stuff of fiction is a little other than custom would have us believe it.
Jessica Sanders - Saturation A39 (2013) - Beeswax on stretched linen
Agnes Martin, This Rain, 1960 Oil on canvas, 70 x 70
Philip Guston, Yellow Light, 1975
helencarter: “I’m doing some experiments using glazes at the moment - this is the first of them!”
Theodor Kittelsen, Sorgen (The Woe)
Johan Christian Dahl, Moon Night Over Dresden, 1827
William Scott, Poem for a Jug No.6, oil on canvas