click on image to enlarge
This painting, which represents a mixture of Mughal and Rajput styles, depicts two Indian girls dancing. It is attributable to the twelfth century AH / eighteenth CE.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
Cecil Collins... The fool...1944
click on image to enlarge
In his essay The Vision of the Fool (1947), Collins wrote that the Fool was the "‘Saint, the artist, the poet’.
"'The saint, the artist, and the poet are all one in the Fool, in him they live, in him the poetic imagination of life lives."
“The Fool is the poetic imagination of life, as inexplicable as the essence of life itself. This poetic life, born in all human beings, lives in them while they are children, but it is killed in them when they grow up by the abstract mechanization of contemporary society.”
more Cecil Collins
Friday, April 13, 2012
Rosaleen Norton ... drawing & poem excerpt
...My home is the house of winds,
With great songs of Space ringing wild in my ears
Whose shouting heart leaps to their tune.
I mock at the shapes, plodding thickly, through lamplight:
stupid and cruel - or kind -
They are alien, Other, I'm touched with uneasiness...
Fear of these human.... and glide away sidelong:
Yet joying in fear, in my stealthy aloofness,
To know they are They and I'm I.
Towers of old cities are spiralling over me, Night-conjured,
rising from Time
And I hear, through the seething of luminous silence -
Secretive, vibrant, the sound of the Solitude -
Calling of others like me
Quietly they come, flitting softly as secrets; light-footed,
velvety, swift...
With eyes gleaming green, lambent flame of the Opal.
Kindred... we signal our quick recognition.
I am I ... but I know we are we
Panther of silence; god of Night; Lord of the wild inhuman
stars:
You are my own; teeming soul of solitude.
Here is no loneliness, secret Master -
You, Dark Spirit are with me.
With great songs of Space ringing wild in my ears
Whose shouting heart leaps to their tune.
I mock at the shapes, plodding thickly, through lamplight:
stupid and cruel - or kind -
They are alien, Other, I'm touched with uneasiness...
Fear of these human.... and glide away sidelong:
Yet joying in fear, in my stealthy aloofness,
To know they are They and I'm I.
Towers of old cities are spiralling over me, Night-conjured,
rising from Time
And I hear, through the seething of luminous silence -
Secretive, vibrant, the sound of the Solitude -
Calling of others like me
Quietly they come, flitting softly as secrets; light-footed,
velvety, swift...
With eyes gleaming green, lambent flame of the Opal.
Kindred... we signal our quick recognition.
I am I ... but I know we are we
Panther of silence; god of Night; Lord of the wild inhuman
stars:
You are my own; teeming soul of solitude.
Here is no loneliness, secret Master -
You, Dark Spirit are with me.
from Pan's Daughter by Nevill Drury
previous Rosaleen Norton
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Dolorosa... watercolour artworks in print... Blood from Heaven ...2012
I have the pleasure of having 3 watercolours drawings in the first book published by Aeon Sophia Press a limited edition of 500, a novel written by a ranking priestess of TEMPLUM BABALONIS; E.J. Alvey. more here.
link to larger image here
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Rosa Mundi a poem...excerpts...H.D. Carr (Aleister Crowley) & Auguste Rodin... 1905
click on image to enlarge
Limited edition, 488 copies printed with a full page watercolor drawing by Auguste Rodin signed in the plate.
pencil and wash design by Auguste Rodin
1. ROSE of the World!
Red glory of the secret heart of Love!
Red flame, rose-red, most subtly curled
Into its own infinite flower, all flowers above!
Its flower in its own perfumed passion,
Its faint sweet passion, folded and furled
In flower fashion;
And my deep spirit taking its pure part
Of that voluptuous heart
Of hidden happiness!
Red glory of the secret heart of Love!
Red flame, rose-red, most subtly curled
Into its own infinite flower, all flowers above!
Its flower in its own perfumed passion,
Its faint sweet passion, folded and furled
In flower fashion;
And my deep spirit taking its pure part
Of that voluptuous heart
Of hidden happiness!
2. Arise, strong bow of the young child Eros!
(While the maddening moonlight, the memoried caress
Stolen of the scented rose
Stirs me and bids each racing pulse ache, ache!)
Bend into an agony of art
Whose cry is ever rapture, and whose tears
For their own purity's undivided sake
Are molten dew, as, on the lotus leaves
Sliver-coiled in the Sun
Into green girdled spheres
Purer than all a maiden's dream enweaves,
Lies the unutterable beauty of
The Waters. Yea, arise, divinest dove
Of the Idalian, on your crimson wings
And soft grey plumes, bear me to yon cool shrine
Of that most softly-spoken one,
Mine Aphrodite! Touch the imperfect strings,
Oh thou, immortal, throned above the moon!
Inspire a holy tune
Lighter and lovelier than flowers and wine
Offered in gracious gardens unto Pan
By any soul of man!
(While the maddening moonlight, the memoried caress
Stolen of the scented rose
Stirs me and bids each racing pulse ache, ache!)
Bend into an agony of art
Whose cry is ever rapture, and whose tears
For their own purity's undivided sake
Are molten dew, as, on the lotus leaves
Sliver-coiled in the Sun
Into green girdled spheres
Purer than all a maiden's dream enweaves,
Lies the unutterable beauty of
The Waters. Yea, arise, divinest dove
Of the Idalian, on your crimson wings
And soft grey plumes, bear me to yon cool shrine
Of that most softly-spoken one,
Mine Aphrodite! Touch the imperfect strings,
Oh thou, immortal, throned above the moon!
Inspire a holy tune
Lighter and lovelier than flowers and wine
Offered in gracious gardens unto Pan
By any soul of man!
...
Matchless, serene, in sacred amplitudes
Of its own royal rapture, deaf and blind
To aught but its own mastery of song
And light, shown ever as silence and deep night
Secret as death and final. Let me long
Never again for aught! This great delight
Involves me, weaves me in its pattern of bliss,
Seals me with its own kiss,
Draws me to thee with every dream that glows,
Poet, each word! Maiden, each burden of snows
Extending beyond sunset, beyond dawn!
O Rose, inviolate, utterly withdrawn
In the truth: -- for this is truth: Love knows!
Ah! Rose of the World! Rose! Rose!
Of its own royal rapture, deaf and blind
To aught but its own mastery of song
And light, shown ever as silence and deep night
Secret as death and final. Let me long
Never again for aught! This great delight
Involves me, weaves me in its pattern of bliss,
Seals me with its own kiss,
Draws me to thee with every dream that glows,
Poet, each word! Maiden, each burden of snows
Extending beyond sunset, beyond dawn!
O Rose, inviolate, utterly withdrawn
In the truth: -- for this is truth: Love knows!
Ah! Rose of the World! Rose! Rose!
excerpts from Rosa Mundi by H. D. Carr (Aleister Crowley)
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Hendrick Hondius... POST FUNERA VITA: AFTER BURIAL, LIFE..1690
Monograms of deceased artists on pyramids: AD (Albrecht Dürer) L (Lucas van Leyden) MVH (Maarten van Heemskerk) AG (Heinrich Aldegrever) HS (Hans Schäufelein)
POST FUNERA VITA
Pallida Mors omnes petit. huic parere necesse est.
Non Color hic ullus, non juvat ullus Honos.
Qui bene vixerunt, horum est POST FUNERA VITA :
Qui bene pinxerunt vivere Morte puta.
Ad vivum pictis tabulas nova vita paratur.
Post mortem ut possit vivere quisque parent.
Translation:
Pale death1 attacks all. We have to obey it. No colour or honour is of any help here. For those who have lived well, there is life after burial. [As for] those who have painted well, consider that they live in death. A new life is set out in lifelike paintings2: let each set out to be able to live after death.
Pallida Mors omnes petit. huic parere necesse est.
Non Color hic ullus, non juvat ullus Honos.
Qui bene vixerunt, horum est POST FUNERA VITA :
Qui bene pinxerunt vivere Morte puta.
Ad vivum pictis tabulas nova vita paratur.
Post mortem ut possit vivere quisque parent.
Translation:
Pale death1 attacks all. We have to obey it. No colour or honour is of any help here. For those who have lived well, there is life after burial. [As for] those who have painted well, consider that they live in death. A new life is set out in lifelike paintings2: let each set out to be able to live after death.
click HERE for closer details of image
Friday, April 6, 2012
Ex Libris... Michel Fingesten ... 1937
this is saved from a while back from journey around my skull one of my favourite graphic art blogs now
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
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