poet's pose

The Blank Slate

It’s almost too late.

To get away from this place.

You won’t let me refuse this.

As if, you’re just for my amusement.

I play my cards.

As I dream for a restart.

Restart.

Restart.

Restart.

O-o-o-oh yeah.

But I’m not like the others.

Due to the fact that I’m not a bag of broken parts.

And the last thing I’ll ever allow.

Is let myself fall apart.

Part.

Part.

Part.

Never allow myself to fall apart.

Oh‑Oh-Oh-Oh

I may not know my name.

But I’m going to make it and break it any ways.

I don’t play the foolish games.

Because life is not all about.

Receiving fame.

More so pain.

I’m just diamond yet unseen in the sky.

I’ll hold tight.

And fight.

All night.

It’s not much of a life.

We are living.

But no one takes it’s given.

I’ll try to convince myself stay.

I’ll stay standing in the light.

If it can’t be found.

I’ll stand my ground.

Even when there are phantom, demon and monster all around.

Above, bellow, or on their own.

I’ll keep trying to get to my throne.

Even if I walk alone.

On my own.

I’m finally getting up the courage to write about her. And about you. And about how I feel about her and you. When I think about it, I have an empty ache in my chest. I think about the things we did together and wonder if you’re doing the same things with her like you did with me. I’m not still in love with you. I know that I love the person you were when you were with me. But damn, it sure is hard when you still look like the same person and you aren’t with me. Maybe I’ll write more and maybe I won’t. I just hope she treats you better then I ever could. And my god, I hope she was worth it.
—  Please don’t take his smiles for granted. -gaa

Anniversary
Vincent Van Gogh made this portrait of Eugène Boch on or about September 1, 1888. It could have been a fine birthday present for this fellow painter whom he had been introduced to only two months earlier.
But it wasn’t. It was intended as a decoration for Vincent’s new home, the “Yellow House”. Van Gogh hung it in his bedroom.

“Ah well, thanks to him — at last I have a first sketch of that painting I’ve been dreaming about for a long time — the poet. He posed for it for me. His fine head, with its green gaze, stands out in my portrait against a starry, deep ultramarine sky; his clothing is a little yellow jacket, a collar of unbleached linen, a multicoloured tie.” (Letter 673, September 3, 1888).

In 1891, Theo Van Gogh’s widow gave the portrait to Boch, who was more than happy with the gift:

“I do not know how I can tell you, madam, how much I was touched by your present and how much pleasure it gives me: it is a beautiful work of art, but moreover a souvenir of Vincent, who I knew in Arles. I still remember the good moments which we had together there. Full of enthusiasm for art, for pure art ! This remains my most enduring thought about your brother-in-law.“ (Letter to Jo Van Gogh-Bonger, July 21, 1891)

Eugène Boch, a Belgian impressionist painter, was born on September 1, 1855. His older sister Anna was a founding member of ‘Les XX’, an important group of artists in its days.

Vincent Van Gogh, Eugène Boch or ‘The Poet’, September 1888. Oil on canvas, 60 x 45 cm. Musée d’Orsay, Paris

2

Man’s Informal Robe with the Thirty-six Poetic Immortals
Period: Taishō period (1912–26)
Date: early 20th century
Culture: Japan
Medium: Silk, stenciled and paste-resist dyed
Dimensions: Overall: 50 3/8 x 49 5/8 in. (128 x 126 cm)
Classification: Textiles-Costumes
Credit Line: John C. Weber Collection, Metropolitan Museum of Art


Description from The Metropolitan Museum of Art: “Representations of the Thirty-Six Poetic Immortals harken back to a literary canon established by the courtier Fujiwara no Kintō (966–1041). When portrayed in the handscroll format, individual poets—in distinctive poses, and with recognizable attributes—are separated from one another by inscriptions of their poems. In contrast, Rinpa artists gathered these isolated, iconic luminaries into a single scene, a convention followed in this informal man’s robe. The visually complex composition was produced through a dyeing process that initially involved using a stencil through which a rice-paste resist was applied, creating thin white outlines around most figures. Colors were then added to accentuate the presence of five poets in particular—notably, one of five female poets, who occupies a prominent position at the upper center of the back of the garment. Her figure, however, is slightly obscured by the men that surround her.”


Artemis:  I’d love to get a better look at the detail of this piece.    I’d go to the Met to see it but it isn’t on view.  :(

Victor Hugo, Three-Quarter View, 1885
Auguste Rodin (French, 1840–1917)
Drypoint, second of eight described states; 9 x 7 in. (22.9 x 17.8 cm)
Rogers Fund, 1916 (16.37.2)

Metropolitan Museum: 

The author of Notre-Dame de Paris (1831) and Les Misérables(1862) was an old man when Rodin proposed to make his portrait. Hugo’s patience with sittings had been strained to the breaking point by another sculptor whose efforts are reported to have produced a mediocre bust. Moreover, Hugo’s devoted mistress Juliette Drouet was dying of cancer. Details of the story vary, but the earliest published accounts agree that Rodin was permitted to be present in the Hugo household and to make sketches, but that the poet would not actually pose. Rodin made dozens of drawings from every possible viewpoint, some rapidly sketched on the spot and others from memory, before being allowed to set up a modeling stand in an out-of-the-way corner to work in clay. From these preliminaries Rodin created the bust of Hugo that he first exhibited at the Salon of the Société des Artistes Français in 1884. A series of splendidly executed prints followed. The fifth state of this Three-Quarter View was published in the journal L'Artiste in February 1885.

4

I am fair, O mortals! like a dream carved in stone, 
And my breast where each one in turn has bruised himself 
Is made to inspire in the poet a love 
As eternal and silent as matter.

On a throne in the sky, a mysterious sphinx, 
I join a heart of snow to the whiteness of swans; 
I hate movement for it displaces lines, 
And never do I weep and never do I laugh.

Poets, before my grandiose poses, 
Which I seem to assume from the proudest statues, 
Will consume their lives in austere study;

For I have, to enchant those submissive lovers,
Pure mirrors that make all things more beautiful:
My eyes, my large, wide eyes of eternal brightness!

(Beauty, The Flowers of Evil - C. Baudelaire )