No, it is not Cooper Mountain Vineyards. You know who you are.
In the universe, there are things that are known, and things that are unknown, and in between, there are doors. ~William Blake
Well, it is, isn’t it? Theatre, that is. And now: Love emblems as a genre. The image at left (c. 1600) comes from a compilation of love emblems published a few years ago as Theatre D’Amour that I bought in hardcover on abebooks for $3.50 in Fine condition!
From the page:
The first and longest series… the twenty-four images from Daniel Heinsiusus Quaris Quid Sit Amor?(‘You Want to Know What Love Is?’), which was, when it was published in Amsterdam in 1601, the first emblem-book solely devoted to the vexed subject of love. (More historical background and review).
Well, of course, I don’t know what love is. (There’s a better Chet Baker version: here.).
Full discussion here. Has half a dozen cutesy pictures, not as sweetly sentimental as much of what you see on SU, but almost. Just 400 years older.
The book itself is well-written. Evidence: You can read several pages from Theatre d’Amour at the publisher (Taschen) with even more color pictures of the genre). Oh, be careful of that door.
Let’s start putting first things first. But first I need a nap. Good night.
Memories of Destruction
Aydin Aghdashlou, from his biography:
And when the war began, I paid my humble due, with a half-burnt miniature by Reza Abbasi suspended in the air as pillars of the conflagration’s black smoke extended the darkness in the background. and the world itself told the tale of my memoirs of annihilation.
One had to be blind, or would have had to shut one’s door to the world and crawl into a hole, not to notice death’s incursion, and the young men who took it for nothing, who welcomed it without fear. Just like that miniature, flying in thick smoke, which is not dead even if it is crumpled. And I discovered many killed ones around me who were not dead, who do not die, who, for me, do not die.
And from this point on, all that was left was the tale of the disfigurement of youth and freshness, and there it was, the victorious Death, roaming; and I, unable to paint the faces of all the dead, was forced to fall back on metaphor, replacing the dead with miniatures and calligraphies and gildings, so that in acts of lamentation, seeking justice. I could become the narrator of the injuries conquering the land.
It was here that the crumpled miniatures, of which I made many, found their source, and ill were to point to a period of my work in which all my technical skills and my fundamental sensations came together to fruition, this would be it. In these works the technique and treatment of the seventeenth-century Isfahan School style were to be applied to the complex structure of a wrinkled and crumpled piece of paper, a process which called for a dual craftsmanship: on the one hand the pen would have to move strongly and freely, as if moving upon smooth paper; and on the other hand, the shades, curves, texture and color of the crumpled paper had to communicate a tangible and concrete reality. The harmony and coordination of these two distinct styles was, in fact, the meeting point of Eastern and Western arts and world views, the meeting point of two structures seeking and portraying the world, one on the plane of imagination and the other in an objective dimension.
The crumpled miniatures also spoke of my crumpling and that of my generation, and formalized a deep bitterness, a bitterness which was the outcome of a misunderstanding between my generation and a newly arrived, younger generation which, rather than learning and choosing with patience, had become used to quickly crumpling and throwing away.
The 2010 Caldecott Medal has been awarded to Jerry Pinkney for his illustrated Aesop Fable, The Lion in the Mouse.
In case you haven’t read the story lately, a ferocious lion spares a cowering mouse that he’d planned to eat, thinking he’ll never see the mouse again. The mouse finds the lion in a poacher’s trap and repays the lion’s kindness by freeing him.
But you don’t have to read the story. This is a picture book. Ages 3-6. It gives me a reason to go to Powell’s, my favorite romantic date with the nice man.
The Caldecott Medal was named in honor of nineteenth-century English illustrator Randolph Caldecott. It is awarded annually by the Association for Library Service to Children, a division of the American Library Association, to the artist of the most distinguished American picture book for children.
News from Anywhere: Mackmurdo Chair
Warning: 7 on the Geeky Esoteric Interest Scale
I adore this chair. I especially adore that it was created 10+ years before Art Nouveau “emerged” at Maison de l’Art Nouveau gallery in 1895 in Paris. Yes, I see the Art Nouveau but do you see the William Morris influence? I’m not making that up!
I’ve been looking at this chair for a few days here, staring at it with a silly smile on my face. I’ve done this before; I remember rocking back and forth and watching the lights on my first stereo receiver (and I wasn’t a toddler). Have a seat and listen. The seat is leather and it’s sturdy, if graceful.
from the page :
“Mackmurdo was both an architect and designer who traveled with John Ruskin, one of the inspirational forces behind the Arts and Crafts movement. By the early 1880s he was a disciple of William Morris and the predominant founder of the Century Guild in 1882, an association of artists and entrepreneurs that attempted to realize the ideals of Morris by bringing the highest levels of artistic creativity to objects for the ordinary home. The chair dates from the very beginning of this enterprise and is one of relatively few pieces to bear the CG stamp.”
Okay, back to posting cats…
Happy Easter! This year, I’m posting my peeps elsewhere. Any similarity to stumblers with the string “peeps” in their name, who may have been offended and reported my peeps posts to feedback as threatening in the past, is coincidental and not intentional. Really, people being offended is just a perk.
Some Peeps links:
Aurora found her polar bear. He was asleep on a cloud, shining brightly beneath the North Star.