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Oh dear, I have been awfully absent here lately haven’t I? I can’t even come up with an excuse. School is finished, I am yet to find work, I have no money so the level of activity is pathetically low. Actually, this is starting to sound like a damn good excuse. My life is boring-bordering-on-tragic. I go to the gym, am sensible with alcohol, I haven’t been shopping in ages and I’m home baking cakes instead of going to shows. I’ve turned into some sort of adult. Or worse still, an old lady. I’ve slowed down so much I’ve entered some sort of coma. But things are about to change. Oh yes my friend, stay tuned.
My blogging activity, as you might have noticed, is somewhat limited to quoting from books I read and changing the header image from one sleeping girl to another. This is to illustrate my state of mental and physical exhaustion. Nowadays I am constantly drained, lethargic and tired. I don’t know why. I’m being told that it is the weather. That it is that time of the year. I sure hope not, I really don’t have time to wait for the sun to come out. I need energy, inspiration and enthusiasm now. Pronto!
(Albert Moore, Apples; A Sleeping Girl; Lord Leighton, Flaming June; Maurice Denis, The Sleeper; Tamara de Lempicka, Dormeuse)
Oh dear blog, I have been neglecting you terribly, haven’t I? I blame it on Don Quixote (yes, I did get trough it in the end). I also blame it on the radical change of life style I have been forced to undergo the last couple of weeks. You know, like waking up to an alarm clock in the mornings, getting in to the commuting routine from hell (London Bridge at peak hours is surely something Satan came up with) and filling up the calendar with nasty words like ‘essay deadline’. Yes, that’s right; I’m back in school. After the first day it felt like I had run a marathon or two. I’m clearly not used to using my head for anything more complicated than playing Tetris on my mobile phone. Now I need to exchange my one-syllable vocabulary (wine, film, bed) to words that I can neither pronounce correctly nor know exactly what they mean (I don’t want to give myself away here but, you know, the French stuff.)
It feels like it is about time to change that picture at the top too. No more graceful ladies lapping up the afternoon sun in floating silk gauze that looks like it’s been spun by angels. How about this one;
Hugo Simberg’s Garden of Death exists in a few different versions, the largest is one of the. now famous, frescoes he did for the Tampere Cathedral in Finland. According to Simberg, it is a place where souls go before entering Heaven. The skeletons are little helpers of Death, and the plants and flowers are people’s souls. That is so sweet, in a morbid kind of way. Read more and check out the rest of the art in Tampere Cathedral here.
Let’s change the header from a despairing lady to a more joyful one: An Afternoon Rest by Guillaume Seignac.
On this Bank Holiday Monday that is today, I find inspiration in Seignac’s dozing lady. She makes me want to spend the last hours of summer gracefully reclined on marble (never has a stone bench looked so comfortable). Though perhaps with a not quite as see-through garment on.
New header is: Isabella and the Pot of Basil by William Holman-Hunt (from Keat’s poem) because I just bought a pot of basil and the kitchen smells absolutely lovely. Well, at least if you stand really close to the basil plant.You would almost think that that is what Isabella is doing too, sniffing herbs. But actually, she’s caressing her Basil pot because that is where she has buried her sweetheart Lorenzo’s head. He was killed by her brothers as Isabella was to be married off to some rich guy and certainly not a simple servant. Heartbroken she withered away with her pot of basil which she watered with her tears. And as if that’s not tragic enough, they then take her basil pot from her, consequently making basil-pot-stealing the worst thing you can do. Symbolically speaking I mean. Or something.
My basil is not quite so interesting, thank god. Just about good enough to go in the pasta, which is all you can ask of a pot of basil really.
Laurencin’s paintings feel like summer incarnated. Sensuous girls dressed in floating, pastel dresses that look light as silk gauze. They sit idly with their dogs and mandolins…so blissful and harmonic. And those muted colours and their black Cubist-like eyes are so enigmatically beautiful and makes me feel melancholic, in a strangely pleasing way. triste. plus que triste.
Painter, stage decorator, book illustrator and print-designer; Marie Laurencin worked in Picasso’s Paris studio together with other avant-garde painters in the early 20th century. She was the favoured muse of Apollinaire (who also encouraged her poetry-writing), her first customer was Gertrude Stein and she was immensely admired by the social elite of both Europe and America.
Upon request, Laurencin painted a portrait of Coco Chanel but it was rejected by the designer as she felt it did not look like her;
Time to change that header now huh? A Tale from the Decameron by J.W Waterhouse, painted in 1916.
New place, new name, new look but same shit really. Hopefully a bit more frequent. Maybe also a bit more interesting, funnier, deeper, engaging, more personal and less conceited but then again, probably not.
My blog has finally been born! It has been on my list of things-to-do-when-i-stop-working for a long time now and is the first on that unintentionally long list to be completed. What my blog will be about? About me I reckon; about things I do, things I want to do and things I should do. About what I like and, knowing myself, most likely about what I don’t like.