Записи с темой: 20 (список заголовков)
12:03 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Когда Босси, вождь расистского движения Лига Севера, впервые приехал в Рим, чтобы произнести речь, люди в городе потрясали плакатами с надписью: «Когда вы еще сидели на деревьях, мы уже вовсю болтали».

Умберто Эко & Жан-Клод Карьер, “Не надейтесь избавиться от книг!” (2009)

@темы: э, к (rus), italian, history, francaise, eco, umberto, carriere, jean-claude, :))), 21, 20

11:54 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Когда-то я написал, что неверно считать, будто религия — опиум для народа, как писал Маркс. Опиум нейтрализует, успокаивает, усыпляет. Нет, религия — это кокаин для народа. Она будоражит толпу. Ж.-К. К.: Скажем, смесь опиума и кокаина. Действительно, мусульманский фундаментализм сегодня, похоже, поднимает факел воинствующего атеизма, и в ретроспективе мы можем рассматривать марксизм и нацизм как две странные языческие религии. Но какие кровавые!..

Умберто Эко & Жан-Клод Карьер, “Не надейтесь избавиться от книг!” (2009)

@темы: э, м, к (rus), religion, marx, karl, italian, francaise, eco, umberto, deutsche, citatus, carriere, jean-claude, 21, 20, 19

11:44 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Во всяком случае, мы подошли к той точке нашей истории, когда мы можем перепоручить умным машинам — умным с нашей точки зрения — обязанность запоминать вместо нас хорошее и плохое. В интервью, которое Мишель Серр дал журналу «Монд де л'эдюкасьон», он сказал по этому поводу, что поскольку нам больше не требуется прилагать усилий для запоминания, то теперь «нам остается лишь разум».

напомнить о различии во французском языке между знанием (savoir) и познанием (connaissance). Знание — это то, чем мы загружены и что не всегда находит себе применение. Познание — это превращение знания в жизненный опыт. Таким образом, вероятно, мы можем доверить обязанность этого беспрестанно обновляемого знания машинам и сосредоточиться на познании. Наверное, именно в этом смысле надо понимать фразу Мишеля Ceppa. В самом деле, нам остается лишь разум (какое облегчение!). Нужно добавить, что если какая-нибудь глобальная экологическая катастрофа уничтожит человеческий род и если по случайности или просто со временем мы исчезнем, то вопросы памяти, которыми мы задаемся и которые мы обсуждаем, сделаются тщетными, бессмысленными. Мне вспоминается последняя фраза из «Мифологик» Леви-Стросса: «То есть ничто». «Ничто» — последнее слово. Наше последнее слово.

Умберто Эко & Жан-Клод Карьер, “Не надейтесь избавиться от книг!” (2009)

@темы: э, с (rus), к (rus), carriere, jean-claude, citatus, memoria, л, technology, italian, francaise, 21, eco, umberto, 20, philosophy, levi-strauss, claude

11:40 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
процитирую баварского комика Карла Валентина. Он сказал: «Раньше и будущее было лучше». Кроме того, мы обязаны ему и другим весьма здравым замечанием: «Все уже было сказано раньше, но не всеми».

Умберто Эко & Жан-Клод Карьер, “Не надейтесь избавиться от книг!” (2009)

@темы: э, к (rus), в, italian, francaise, eco, umberto, deutsche, citatus, carriere, jean-claude, 21, 20

23:27 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
As I followed Hans’s zigzag and switchback course all over the steep city, it occurred to me that hangovers are not always harmful. If they fall short of the double-vision which turns Salisbury Cathedral into Cologne, they invest scenery with a lustre which is unknown to total abstainers. Once we were under the lancets of St. Vitus’s Cathedral, a second conviction began to form. Prague was the recapitulation and the summing-up of all I had gazed at since stepping ashore in Holland, and more; for that slender nave and the airy clerestory owed spiritual allegiance far beyond the Teutonic heartland, and the Slav world. They might have sprung up in France under the early Valois or in Plantagenet England.

The last of the congregation were emerging to a fickle momentary sunlight. Indoors the aftermath of incense, as one might say with a lisp, still floated among the clustered piers. Ensconced in their distant stalls, an antiphonal rearguard of canons was intoning Nones. Under the diapered soffits and sanctuary lamps of a chantry, a casket like a brocaded ark of the covenant enclosed the remains of a saint. Floating wicks and rows of candles lit up his effigy overhead: they revealed a mild mediaeval sovereign holding a spear in his hand and leaning on his shield. It was Good King Wenceslas, no less. The confrontation was like a meeting with Jack the Giant Killer or Old King Cole... English carolsingers, Hans told me as we knelt in a convenient pew, had promoted him in rank. The sainted Czech prince—ancestor of a long line of Bohemian kings, however—was murdered in 934. And there he lay, hallowed by his countrymen for the last thousand years.

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

@темы: travel, history, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, 20

21:51 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
There is a strange and perplexing coda to all this. Four knights of Richard’s father had murdered St. Thomas à Becket two decades earlier. One was Hugo de Morville, and when the crowd from the nave had tried to come to the rescue, he had kept them at bay with his sword while Tracy, Brito and Fitzurse struck down the Archbishop in the N.W. Transept. We know the sequel; the flight to Saltwood, to Scotland, then the outcast solitude of the four murderers in Morville’s Yorkshire castle; penance, rehabilitation, possibly pilgrimage to the Holy Land. According to a tradition, Morville died there in 1202 or 1204 and was buried in the porch (now indoors) of the Templar’s Hostel at Jerusalem, which became the Mosque of El Aksa. But the poet Ulrich von Zatzikhoven says that when Leopold transferred the King to the Emperor’s custody in 1193, Richard’s place was taken by a hostage. This was a knight called Hugo de Morville, who lent the poet a volume containing the Legend of Lancelot in Anglo-Norman verse, from which he translated the famous Lanzelet, who thus followed Sir Percival and Tristan and Yseult into German mythology. Some authorities think the the two Morvilles are the same. I hope they are right.

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

@темы: tristan und isolde, nibelungen, middle centuries, literature, history, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, 20

21:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
The footpath along the southern bank was leading me into the heart of the Wachau, a region of the Danube as famous as those stretches of the Rhine I had travelled at Christmas or the Loire in Touraine. Melk was the threshold of this unspeakably beautiful valley. As we have seen by now, castles beyond counting had been looming along the river. They were perched on dizzier spurs here, more dramatic in decay and more mysteriously cobwebbed with fable. The towered headlands dropped sheer, the liquid arcs flowed round them in semicircles. From ruins further from the shore the land sloped more gently, and vineyards and orchards descended in layers to the tree-reflecting banks. The river streamed past wooded islands and when I gazed either way, the seeming water-staircase climbed into the distance. Its associations with the Nibelungenlied are close, but a later mythology haunts it. If any landscape is the meeting place of chivalrous romance and fairy tales, it is this. The stream winds into distances where Camelot or Avalon might lie, the woods suggest mythical fauna, the songs of Minnesingers and the sound of horns just out of earshot.

I sat under a birch tree to sketch Schloss Schoenbuehel gleaming as though it were carved ivory, it sprang out of a pivot of rock which the river almost surrounded and ended in a single and immensely tall white tower crowned with a red onion cupola. “It’s the castle of the Counts Seilern,” a passing postman said. Smoke curled from a slim chimney: luncheon must have been on the way. I imagined the counts seated expectantly down a long table, hungry but polite, with their hands neatly crossed between their knives and forks.


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

@темы: mythology, middle centuries, folklore and legends, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, deutsche-oesterreichisch, deutsche, 20, nibelungen

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

15:52 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
I found myself, with two new friends, still singing it in the small hours as we descended the valley. We passed the luminous vision of a watermill fossilized in ice and snow. When we reached the river, we rowed across to a circular bastion and a tall belfry glimmering among the trees on the other bank. As we climbed the steps into the starry town of Pöchlarn, a window opened and told us to stop making such a noise.

We were invading one of the most important Danubian landmarks of the Nibelungenlied! The polymath had said it was the only place in the whole saga where no slaughter had broken out. The Margrave Rüdiger entertained the Nibelungen-Burgundians in this very castle, feasting them in coloured tents pitched all over the meadows. They were celebrating a betrothal with dancing and songs to the viol. Then the great army rode away to Hungary and their doom. ‘And none of them,’ the poet says, ‘ever got back alive to Pöchlarn.

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

@темы: poetry, nibelungen, middle centuries, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, deutsche, 20

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

15:45 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
The others had stolen away to bed hours before. The third bottle of Langenlois was empty and we stood up too. He paused in front of a glass case in which a bright-eyed and enormous stuffed trout was swimming urgently through a tangle of tin water-weed. “It’s a pity you didn’t go on over the hills from St. Florian,” he said. “You would have got to the little town of Steyr, and the Enns valley”—this was the green tributary I had watched curling out of the hills opposite Mauthausen—“It’s only half a dozen miles. Schubert wrote the Trout quintet there. He was on a walking tour, like you.” He whistled the tune as we strolled along the snow-covered quay, with Dick bounding ahead and sliding comically out of control on the concealed ice. The steeple of Ybbs stood clear above the roofs and the tree-tops the other side. Above the roofs of our own shore, almost inevitably, a large baroque castle soared into the starlight. “You see the third window on the left?” the polymath asked. “It’s the room where Karl, our last Emperor, was born.” After a pause, he went on whistling the tune of The Trout. "I always think of streams running down to the Danube," he saud, "whenever I hear it."



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

@темы: youtube, schubert, music, history, geography, fermor, patrick leigh, english-british, 20, 19

15:36 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
At the mention of the Ritter von Ybbs, I asked him the exact meaning of von. He explained how a ‘Ritter von’ and an ‘Edler von’—Knight, or Nobleman, ‘of’ somewhere—were originally feudal landowners holding a fief, and usually an eponymous one, in knight’s fee. Later it simply became the lowest rank in the scale of titles. Its fiendish aura in England, due to the military bent of Prussian junkers, is absent in Austria where a milder, squire-ish feeling hovers about the prefix. This was the cue for an excursus on Central European aristocracy, conducted with great brio and the detachment of a zoologist. I had got the hang of it on broad lines; but what about those figures who had intrigued me in Germany: landgraves, margraves, rhinegraves and wildgraves? Who was the Margravine of Bayreuth and Anspach? The answers led him to a lightning disquisition on the Holy Roman Empire and how the tremendous title had pervaded and haunted Europe from Charlemagne to the Napoleonic Wars. The rôles of the Electors—the princes and prelates who chose the Emperors until the Crown became an unofficial Habsburg heirloom, when they ratified it still—were at last made clear. Between his election and accession, I learnt, a prospective Emperor was styled King of the Romans. “Why!” he said, “there was an English one, King John’s son, Richard of Cornwall! And his sister Isabella married the Emperor Frederick II, the stupor mundi! But Richard never succeeded, poor fellow—as you know”—a tacit, all-purpose nod seemed the best response here—“he died of grief when his son Henry of Almain was murdered by Guy de Montfort at Viterbo. Dante writes about it...” By this time I had stopped being surprised at anything. He explained the mediatization of lesser sovereign states when the Empire was dissolved; and from here, at a dizzy pace, he branched into the history of the Teutonic Knights, the Polish szlachta and their elective kings, the Moldowallachian hospodars and the great boyars of Rumania. He paid brief tribute to the prolific loins of Rurik and the princely progeny they scattered across the Russias, and the Grand Princes of Kiev and Novgorod, the Khans of Krim Tartary and the Kagans of the Mongol Hordes. If nothing had interrupted, we would have reached the Great Wall of China and flown across the sea to the Samurai world.

But something recalled us nearer home: to the ancient, almost Brahminic Austrian rules of eligibility and the stifling Spanish ceremony of the Court which had survived from the times of Charles V. He was critical of the failures of the nobility at crucial moments, but he was attached to it nevertheless. The proliferation of central European titles came under mild fire. “It’s much better in England, where all but one reverts to Mister in the end. Look at me and my brothers! All handle and no jug.” Would he have liked titles to be done away with?[10] “No, no!” he said, rather contradictorily. “They should be preserved at all costs—the world is getting quite dull enough. And they are not really multiplying—history and ecology are against them. Think of the Oryx! Think of the Auckland Island Merganser! The Great Auk! The Dodo!” His face was divided by a grin: “You ought to see some of my aunts and uncles.” But a moment later his brow was clouded by concern. “Everything is going to vanish! They talk of building power-dams across the Danube and I tremble whenever I think of it! They’ll make the wildest river in Europe as tame as a municipal waterworks. All those fish from the East—they would never come back! Never, never, never!” He looked so depressed that I changed the subject by asking him about the Germanic tribes who had once lived here—the Marcomanni and the Quadi—I couldn’t get their odd names out of my head. “What?” He cheered up at once. Those long-haired Wotan-worshippers, who peered for centuries between the tree-boles, while the legionaries drilled and formed tortoise on the other bank? His eyes kindled, and I drank in more about the Völkerwanderungen in a quarter of an hour than I could have gleaned in a week with the most massive historical atlases.

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

@темы: history, geography, fermor, patrick leigh, f, ethnography, english-british, ecology, deutsche-oesterreichisch, deutsche, 20

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

14:08 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Dark fell while I was trudging along a never-ending path beside the Waal. It was lined with skeleton trees; the frozen ice-puddles creaked under my hobnails; and, beyond the branches, the Great Bear and a retinue of winter constellations blazed in a clear cold sky.

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

@темы: geography, fermor, patrick leigh, f, english-british, astronomy, 20, nature

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

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