In the museum I love, we stroll and consider paintings, sculptures, and a few random examples of what passes for art in this 21st century. Weary, we sit and gaze at Stroh’s serene, soothing Sunscape – palest oils smoothed in stunning simplicity, no trace of brush or canvas, a silk veil of softest paint encircled by slim silver wire. Glow and warmth are palpable. I should have brought my parasol.
TWO FACES OF BEAUTIFUL
In his Albuquerque studio on an easel near the north window rests Howard Wexler’s stunning portrait of artist Alice Seely regal posture elegant as a queen sleek black hair in chic chignon black velvet décolleté gown a cloud of maribou encircling the neck dangling onyx earrings antique ruby pendant at her throat aura of Arpège delicate suede sandals half-full Baccarat glass of claret wistful dark eyes gazing into distance mind in Prague, Nairobi, or New York “Beautiful woman,” Howard murmurs.… |To be Continued “New Poetry by Ann Applegarth”
The ocean, the strand, the interaction between self and sea, between our Being in the world versus our Seeing in the world . . .
Humanity long ago left the realm of an easy oneness with Nature, but a parallel belief held on, at least through the Romantic period: women were naturally still with Her. Nature itself was feminine. Men had lost the link, but not women, and men could retain that link indirectly through women.
I’m currently about 120 pages into to this marvelous novel, translated from the French by Alison Anderson. A most enjoyable reflection on the human condition, class, Art, sickness, death and how we all seek our own raison d’être. More on this wonderful book later this week . . .
Wanted to welcome Ann Applegarth to Spinozablue. We have one of her fine poems on display here, and hope to present more of her visions from the southwest in the future.
I roam this world on sidewalks littered
with images of violence.
Maintenance crews work overtime,
even on Sundays and Christmas —
stout men, crawling on padded knees,
scrub concrete with caustic detergent,
broad steel-bristled brushes, and
elbow grease. The stains remain.
My satin slippers darken and fray.
Each dawn finds holes worn through
at least a dozen pairs — and I am
merely one frail princess, attired for
skipping down streets of polished gold.