Записи с темой: art (список заголовков)
10:01 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Как доказать моему защитнику, что инстинкты убийцы я знаю не по К.-Г. Юнгу, ревность не по Марселю Прусту, Испанию не по Хемингуэю, Париж не по Эрнсту Юнгеру, Швейцарию не по Марку Твену, Мексику не по Грэму Грину, страх смерти не по Бернаносу, блуждание в пустоте не по Кафке и все остальное не по Томасу Манну; как, черт возьми, ему это доказать? Нет надобности даже самому читать этих писателей. Они, так сказать, просачиваются в сознание через наших знакомых, которые, в свою очередь, живут одними плагиатами. Что за время! Допустим, я видел меч-рыбу, влюбился в мулатку, - с тем же успехом это могло произойти на утреннике культур-фильмов. А мысли... - о, боже! - в наше время редко встретишь даже человека, избравшего для себя определенный тип плагиата. Ведь это уже свидетельствовало бы о наличии индивидуальности, если, скажем, человек видит мир по Хайдеггеру, и только по Хайдеггеру, тогда как мы, остальные, купаемся в коктейле, содержащем всего понемножку, в благороднейшей смеси, сбитой не кем-нибудь, а самим Элиотом, мы всезнайки, чего только не нахватавшиеся, и даже рассказы о видимом мире, как я уже говорил, ровно ничего не значат. В наше время нет больше terra incognita (кроме России). К чему же все эти россказни! Они не доказывают, что кто-то что-то видел воочию. Мой защитник прав. И все же!..

Макс Фриш, “Штиллер" (1954)

@темы: ф, swiss, literature, frisch, max, art, 20

16:15 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Ceremonious and jocund, Melk is high noon. Meridian glory surrounded us as a clock in the town struck twelve. The midday light showered on the woods and a yellow loop of the Danube and a water-meadow full of skaters, all foreshortened as they wheeled and skimmed beneath the flashing line of windows. We were standing at the centre of a wide floor and peering—under a last ceiling-episode of pillars and flung cloud where the figures rotated beneath a still loftier dayspring of revelation—at a scene like a ballroom gallop getting out of hand. Draperies whirled spiralling up biblical shanks and resilient pink insteps trod the sky. We might have been gazing up through a glass dance-floor and my companion, touching me on the elbow, led me away a couple of paces and the scene reeled for a second with the insecurity of Jericho, as trompe l’oeil ceilings will when a shift of focus inflicts the beholder with a fleeting spasm of vertigo. He laughed, and said: “On se sent un peu gris, vous ne trouvez pas?”

A bit tipsy... It was quite true. We had been talking about the rococo interplay of spiritual and temporal, and for a few instants
at these last words, my companion was transformed as well: habit, scapular, cowl and tonsure had all vanished and a powdered queue uncoiled down his brocaded back from a bow of watered silk. He was a Mozartian courtier. His light-hearted voice continued its discourse as he stood with his left hand poised on his sword knot. With explanatory sweeps of a clouded cane in his right, he unravelled the stratagems of the ceiling-painter; and when, to balance the backward tilt of his torso, he advanced a leg in a Piranesi stance, I could all but hear a red heel tap on the chessboard floor.

Patrick Leigh Fermor - "A Time of Gifts" (1977)

@темы: fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, deutsche-oesterreichisch, baroque, art, architecture, 20

16:10 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
In this high baroque style, halted at a point on the frontier of rococo where the extravagant magic of later decades is all implicit, how easily the same aesthetic mood glides from church to palace, from palace to ballroom, from ballroom to monastery and back into church again! Paradox reconciles all contradictions. Clouds drift, cherubim are on the wing, and swarms of putti, baptised in flight from the Greek Anthology, break loose over the tombs. They try on mitres and cardinals’ hats and stumble under the weight of curtains and crosiers while stone Apostles and Doctors of the Church, who are really encyclopaedists in fancy dress, gaze down indulgently. Female saints display the instruments of their martyrdom as light-heartedly as dice-boxes and fans. They are sovereigns’ favourites, landgravines dressed as naiads; and the androgynous saint-impersonating courtiers who ogle the ornate ceilings so meltingly from their plinths might all be acting in a charade. Sacred and profane change clothes and penitents turn into dominoes with the ambiguity of a masqued ball. In the half-century following Melk, rococo flowers into miraculously imaginative and convincing stage scenery. A brilliant array of skills, which touches everything from the pillars of the colonnade to the twirl of a latch, links the most brittle and transient-seeming details to the most magnificent and enduring spoils of the forests and quarries. A versatile genius sends volley after volley of fantastic afterthoughts through the the great Vitruvian and Palladian structures. Concave and convex uncoil and pursue each other across the pilasters in ferny arabesques, liquid notions ripple, waterfalls running silver and blue drop to lintels and hang frozen there in curtains of artificial icicles. Ideas go feathering up in mock fountains and float away through the colonnades in processions of cumulus and cirrus. Light is distributed operatically and skies open in a new change of gravity that has lifted wingless saints and evangelists on journeys of aspiration towards three-dimensional sunbursts and left them levitated there, floating among cornices and spandrels and acanthus leaves and architectural ribands crinkled still with pleats from lying long folded in bandboxes. Scripture pastorals are painted on the walls of the stately interiors. Temples and cylindrical shrines invade the landscape of the Bible. Chinese pagodas, African palms, Nile pyramids and then a Mexican volcano and the conifers and wigwams of Red Indians spring up in Arcady. Walls of mirror reflect these scenes. They bristle with sconces, sinuous gold and silver boundaries of twining branches and the heaped-up symbols of harvest and hunting and warfare mask the joins and the great sheets of glass answer each other across wide floors and reciprocate their reflections to infinity. The faded quicksilver, diffusing a submarine dusk, momentarily touches the invention and the delight of this lookingglass world with a hint of unplanned sadness.

But one is always looking up where those buoyant scenes in grisaille or pastel or polychrome, unfolding elliptically in asymmetric but balancing girdles of snowy cornice, enclose room after room with their resplendent lids. Scriptural throngs tread the air among the banks of vapour and the toppling perspectives of the balustrades. Allegories of the seasons and chinoiserie eclogues are on the move. Aurora chases the Queen of the Night across the sky and Watteau-esque trios, tuning their lutes and their violins, drift by on clouds among ruins and obelisks and loosened sheaves. A sun declining on a lagoon in Venice touches the rims of those clouds and veils the singing faces and the plucked strings in a tenuous melancholy; irony and pity float in the atmosphere and across the spectator’s mind, for there is little time left and a closing note sounds in all these rococo festivals.

Patrick Leigh Fermor - "A Time of Gifts" (1977)

@темы: fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, deutsche-oesterreichisch, art, architecture, 20

15:55 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Strictly speaking, the Bohemian Forest had come to an end some way upstream. The old Kingdom of Bohemia, which had belonged to the Empire for the last three centuries, vanished when it became part of Czechoslovakia in 1919. It had always been landlocked by surrounding states. How could the famous stage-direction—“The Coast of Bohemia”—have ever slipped from Shakespeare’s pen? When he introduced it in The Winter’s Tale, Bohemia wasn’t a half-mythical country, like ‘Illyria’ in Twelfth Night. Its whereabouts and its character were as well known as Navarre in Love’s Labour’s Lost, or Scotland in Macbeth. In fact, as an important Protestant stronghold, it was particularly famous at the time. The Elector Palatine—the Protestant champion of Europe—was married to Princess Elizabeth, and three years after Shakespeare’s death he was elected to the throne of Bohemia. (The Winter Queen again! Shakespeare must have known her well and, according to some, the bridal masque in The Tempest was written for their betrothal.) How could Shakespeare have thought that her Kingdom was on the sea? As I marched downstream, inspiration struck. ‘Coast’ must originally have meant ‘side’ or ‘edge,’ not necessarily connected with ‘sea’ at all! Perhaps this very path was the Coast of Bohemia - at any rate, the Coast of the Forest: near enough!

Let us run quickly through the relevant part of the story. The King of Sicily is unjustly convinced that Perdita, his infant daughter, is the bastard offspring of his Queen Hermione by his former friend and guest, the King of Bohemia. Antigonus, a faithful old courtier determined to save Perdita from her father’s anger, flees from the court with the baby under his cloak, and takes ship for Bohemia. By what route? Shakespeare doesn’t say. He would scarcely have gone via the Black Sea. I saw him sailing from Palermo, landing at Trieste, travelling overland, then embarking in Vienna in a vessel sailing upstream. The ship, running into a terrible storm, probably among the Grein whirlpools, founders. Antigonus, the old courtier, scrambles ashore—perhaps just under the castle of Werfenstein!—and then, amid thunder and lightning, he just has time to perch the swaddled Perdita in a safe place when the second of Shakespeare’s most famous stage-directions—‘Exit pursued by bear’—comes into force. (Bears have died out in the Austrian mountains, but there were plenty then.) While the beast in question devours Antigonus in the wings, enter an old shepherd. He sees Perdita and carries the little bundle home, and, finally brings her up as his daughter, Sixteen years later comes the marvellous sheep-ahearing feast, with its promise of recognition and a happy ending and its magical speeches. It was probably celebrated in one of those upland farms...

Patrick Leigh Fermor - "A Time of Gifts" (1977)

@темы: shakespeare, s, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, art, 16

15:50 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
There are, too, mystical and medical causes, abstruse but valid, for the erupting and purulent Isenheim details. They were expressly stipulated by the Antonite monks in their directions to the painter. The altarpiece was destined for their Isenheim hospital which was dedicated to the cure of diseases of the skin and the blood, plague, epilepsy and ergotism, and the details are depicted for a strange reason. Contemplation of these painted symbols by the patients comprised the initial stage of their healing. It was a religious act in which the promise of miraculous healing was held to reside.

Patrick Leigh Fermor - "A Time of Gifts" (1977)

@темы: history, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, deutsche-oesterreichisch, deutsche, art, 20, 15

15:32 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
The link between journeys and painting, especially this sort of journey, is very close. There was plenty to think about as I made my way through the snow-bound monastic orchards; and it occurred to me, in the silent fields that followed, and for the hundredth time since my landing in Holland, that so far one painter had presided over every stage of this Winterreise. When no buildings were in sight, I was back in the Dark Ages. But the moment a farmhouse or a village impinged, I was in the world of Peter Brueghel. The white flakes falling beside the Waal—or the Rhine or the Neckar or the Danube—and the zigzag gables and the muffled roofs, were all his. The icicles, too, and the trampled snow, the logs piled on the sledges and the peasants stooped double under loads of faggots. When children with woollen hoods and satchels burst out of a village school with a sudden scamper of miniature clogs, I knew in advance that in a moment they would be flapping their arms and blowing on mittened fingers and clearing a space to beat a top in, or galloping down a lane to slide on the nearest brook, with everyone - children, grown-ups, cattle and dogs - moving about in the wake of their own cloudy breath. When the wintry light crept dimly from slits close to the horizon or an orange sun was setting through the branches of a frozen osier-bed, the identity was complete.


Patrick Leigh Fermor - "A Time of Gifts" (1977)

@темы: renaissance northern, geography, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, dutch, b, art, 20, 16

15:26 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Though these painters are unlike each other, they do have some important things in common. They all come from southern Germany. They were all born in the last forty years of the fifteenth century. All of them were active in the early decades of the sixteenth, first under the Emperor Maximilian—‘the Last of the Knights,’ a belated survivor of the Middle Ages—and then under his half-Spanish, High Renaissance grandson and successor, Charles V. The whole of German painting seems to crowd into this sixty years’ span: a sudden abundance, with nothing but mediaeval workshops to herald it and no real follow-up. It was Germany’s moment, brought about by the Renaissance in Italy and by the spread of humanist studies at home and stimulated and tormented by the rise of Protestantism. Luther’s active life fits the time-span almost to a second; and all five painters finished on the Protestant side. (Grünewald, the oldest, was deeply troubled and finally reduced to inaction. Holbein, the youngest, took things in his stride. It is hard to think of them as contemporaries but their lives overlapped for forty years.) Two main channels of approach and flight linked south Germany with the outside world. The more natural one followed the Rhine to Flanders and led straight to the studios of Brussels and Bruges and Ghent and Antwerp. The other crossed the Alps through the Brenner Pass and followed the Adige to Verona, where an easy path unwound to Mantua, Padua and Venice. Fewer took the second way but it was the more decisive in the end. It was a fruitful polarity and German painting was spinning, as it were, on a Van der Weyden-Mantegna axis.
As I walked along the Danube, I was traversing, without knowing it, an important minor sub-division of art-history. ‘The Danube School,’ an arbitrary term which is often enclosed in inverted commas, covers exactly the period we have been talking about and it embraces the Danube basin from Regensburg to Vienna, taking in Bohemia to the north as far as Prague, and to the south the slopes of the Alps from the Tyrol to Lower Austria. Dürer and Holbein, although they are from the near-Danubian towns of Nuremberg and Augsburg, are not included: the one is too universal, the other, perhaps, too sophisticated or a decade or so too late. Grünewald, geographically, is a fraction too far west and they probably need him for an equally arbitrary Rhenish School. Otherwise, he would fit in admirably. This leaves Cranach and Altdorfer: Danubian stars of the first magnitude among a swarm of lesser-known regional masters.

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Patrick Leigh Fermor - "A Time of Gifts" (1977)

@темы: renaissance northern, history, geography, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, deutsche-oesterreichisch, deutsche, art, 20, 16, 15

14:56 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Again, anyone bumping into me unawares, like the crone on the Ulm road, would have taken me for drunk; in a literary sense they would have been right. Every mile or so wooden calvaries, hewn and painted with rustic velleities of baroque, stood askew beside the path. Streaming wounds mangled the gaunt figures and exposure had warped or split them along the grain. Haloes of tarnished brass put out spikes behind the heads; the brows were clumsily hooped already with plaits of real thorns and sheltered by pointed snow-laden chevrons. They might have been the lineal replacements, changed every few generations, of the first Christian emblems which St. Boniface, hot-foot from Devonshire, had set up in Germany. He converted the country a hundred years after St. Augustine had arrived in Kent; and not much more than two centuries after Hengist and Horsa had landed in Britain while their German kinsmen were bursting into Gaul and into these trans-Danubian woods. This saint from Devonshire was not the only Englishman to help drive the old gods out: monks from south-east England, the West Country and the Shires were soon seated on all the earliest bishops’ thrones of Germany.

Vague speculation thrives in weather like this. The world is muffled in white, motor-roads and telegraph-poles vanish, a few castles appear in the middle distance; everything slips back hundreds of years. The details of the landscape—the leafless trees, the sheds, the church towers, the birds and the animals, the sledges and the woodmen, the sliced ricks and the occasional cowmen driving a floundering herd from barn to barn—all these stand out dark in isolation against the snow, distinct and momentous. Objects expand or shrink and the change makes the scenery resemble early woodcuts of winter husbandry. Sometimes the landscape moves it further back in time. Pictures from illuminated manuscripts take shape; they become the scenes which old breviaries and Books of Hours enclosed in the O of Orate, fratres. The snow falls; it is Carolingian weather... Set on the way by my Villon craze, I had discovered and devoured Helen Waddell’s Mediaeval Latin Lyrics and the Wandering Scholars the year before and had seized on the Archpoet and the Carmina Burana; and I wasn’t slow, in the present circumstances, to identify myself with one of those itinerant mediaeval clerks. In an inn or a cowshed, when I scratched away the ice-ferns in the morning and the winter scene widened, the illusion was complete:
Nec lympha caret alveus,
nec prata virent herbida,
sol nostra fugit aureus confinia;
est inde dies niveus,
nox frigida. *

Patrick Leigh Fermor - "A Time of Gifts" (1977)

@темы: art, poetry, links, libri, illustrations, illuminations, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, 20, 13

14:44 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
A second kind of scenery—the Italian—is almost as well known in England as the Dutch, and for the same gallery-haunting reasons. How familiar, at one remove, are those piazzas and arcades! The towers and the ribbed cupolas give way to the bridged loops of a river, and the rivers coil into umbered distances between castled hills and walled cities; there are shepherds’ hovels and caverns; the fleece of woods succeeds them and the panorama dies away in fluted mountains that are dim or gleaming under skies with no more clouds than a decorative wreath of white vapour. But this scenery is a backcloth, merely, for lily-bearing angels who flutter to earth or play violins and lutes at Nativities; martyrdoms are enacted in front of it, miracles take place, and mystic marriages, scenes of torture, crucifixions, funerals and resurrections; processions wend, rival armies close in a deadlock of striped lances, an ascetic greybeard strikes his breast with a stone or writes at a lectern while a lion slumbers at his feet; a sainted stripling is riddled with crossbow bolts and gloved prelates collapse with upcast eyes and swords embedded across their tonsures. Now, all these transactions strike the eye with a monopolizing impact; for five centuries and more, in many thousands of frames, they have been stealing the scene; and when the strange deeds are absent, recognition is much slower than it is in the Low Countries, where the precedence is reversed. In Holland the landscape is the protagonist, and merely human events—even one so extraordinary as Icarus falling head first in the sea because the wax in his artificial wings has melted—are secondary details: next to Brueghel’s ploughed field and trees and sailing ship and ploughman, the falling aeronaut is insignificant.

Patrick Leigh Fermor - "A Time of Gifts" (1977)

@темы: italian, fermor, patrick leigh, f, art, 20

14:38 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Imaginary interiors... No wonder they took shape in painting terms! Ever since those first hours in Rotterdam a three-dimensional Holland had been springing up all round me and expanding into the distance in conformity with another Holland which was already in existence and in every detail complete. For, if there is a foreign landscape familiar to English eyes by proxy, it is this one; by the time they see the original, a hundred mornings and afternoons in museums and picture galleries and country houses have done their work. These confrontations and recognition-scenes filled the journey with excitement and delight. The nature of the landscape itself, the colour, the light, the sky, the openness, the expanse and the details of the towns and the villages are leagued together in the weaving of a miraculously consoling and healing spell. Melancholy is exorcised, chaos chased away and wellbeing, alacrity of spirit and a thoughtful calm take their place.

Patrick Leigh Fermor - "A Time of Gifts" (1977)

@темы: fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, dutch, art, 20, hollaender

12:15 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
And yet there is no sense here of a drive toward personality, of marking the work with an unmistakable sense of individuality. The work has this unmistakability about it, when one gets to know the signatures of individual painters, but I do not believe that was their goal—their attention was turned outward, toward that which was to be represented. There is an odd quality of egolessness about these pictures, when one takes them as a whole; they represent a grand, collective visual enterprise, a kind of a team inquiry into reality, and they abandon the stuff of personality in order to look deeply at the world. In this fiercely burning gaze, personality seems burned away. (One can see exactly where this practice of abnegation ends, in Rembrandt, where suddenly the glorious, entirely idiosyncratic Self is everything.) But in my beloved still lifes, this hasn’t happened yet; the painter’s overt attention is turned toward the world.

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: r, nederlands, english-american, doty, mark, d, art, 21, 17, rembrandt, harmenszoon van rijn

12:12 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
A painting doesn’t especially seem like an object, since we seem always to be looking through it, into it, rather than at it.

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: english-american, doty, mark, d, art, 21

12:10 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
A paradox, that all this light in front of us, on these canvases and panels of wood or copper, is not light, but an image of the fleeting world made out of sold stuff, emulsions of clay and minerals and tinting materials suspended in oil. Thus it is light built of earthly things, and in this way somewhat like ourselves, both solid and ethereal at once, both heavy matter and energetic quickness.

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: english-american, doty, mark, d, art, 21

12:08 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
as Norman Bryson has pointed out in a very useful book of essays on still life called Looking at the Overlooked—that everything in this upclose, bodily space is delineated with such clarity. We’re accustomed to not seeing what is so near to us; we do not need to look at things that are at hand, because they are at hand every day. That is what makes home so safe and so appealing, that we do not need to look at it. Novelty recedes, in the face of the daily, and we’re free to relax, to drift, to focus inward. But in still life the familiar is limned with an almost hallucinatory clarity, nothing glanced over or elided, nothing subordinate to the impression of the whole.

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: nederlands, english-american, doty, mark, d, bryson, norman, b, art, 21, 20, 17

12:05 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Svetlana Alpert says that looking at Dutch painting is less like looking into a window than at a map or a mirror; these surfaces are intended to stay surfaces; they are the rendered aspect of the world, concerned not so much with the illusion of depth that perspective tries to create as with a scrupulous rendering of the optical surface, things as they are loved by the eye. These rooms are witness to such acts of attention; here is testament to the eye’s profound engagement with the splendid look of things.

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: english-american, doty, mark, d, citatus, art, alpers, svetlana, a, 21, 20

12:03 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
The profusion of minutiae,’’ the catalogue says, ‘‘underlines the impossibility of being able to completely chart, let alone comprehend, the still life."

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: 21, d, citatus, art, nederlands, english-american, doty, mark

11:55 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Erasmus thought such painting made us ‘‘twice pleased, when we see a painted flower comparing with a living one. In one we admire the artifice of nature, in the other the genius of the painter, in each the goodness of God."

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: english-american, e, doty, mark, d, citatus, art, 21, 17, 16, nederlands, erasmus of rotterdam

11:52 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
There is a Japanese word for things made more beautiful by use, that bear the evidence of their own making, or the individuating marks of time’s passage: a kind of beauty not immune to time but embedded in it.

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: art, linguae, japanese, english-american, doty, mark, d, 21

11:34 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
What makes a poem a poem, finally, is that it is unparaphrasable. There is no other way to say exactly this; it exists only in its own body of language, only in these words. I may try to explain it or represent it in other terms, but then some element of its life will always be missing.

It’s the same with painting. All I can say of still life must finally fall short; I may inventory, weigh, suggest, but I cannot circumscribe; some element of mystery will always be left out.

What is missing is, precisely, its poetry.

Part of what that poetry is, I think, is the the inner life of the dead, held in suspension. It is still visible to us; you can look at the paintings and you can feel it. This is evidence that a long act of seeing might translate into something permanent, both of ourselves and curiously impersonal, sturdy, useful.

Of what use, exactly? As advocates of intimacy, as embodiments of paradox, as witnesses to earth, here, this moment, now.

Evidence, thus, that tenderness and style are still the best gestures we can make in the face of death.

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: english-american, doty, mark, d, art, 21, poetry

11:32 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Someone and no one. That, I think, is the deepest secret of these paintings, finally, although it seems just barely in the realm of the sayable, this feeling that beneath the attachments and appurtenances, the furnishings of selfhood, what we are is attention, a quick physical presence in the world, a bright point of consciousness in a wide field from which we are not really separate. That, in a field of light, we are intensifications of that light.

Mark Doty, "Still Life with Oysters and Lemon: On Objects and Intimacy" (2002)

@темы: nederlands, english-american, doty, mark, d, art, 21, 17

Citatus

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