December 29th

 

the breath of wanting

love the great leveller cleaves

a sword to the soul

the crown slips silent

shamed in his palsied grasp, dull

in her tender glow

the barefoot beggar

girl, august and comely eyed

the King at her feet

 

I’m really pleased with this three-tiered Haiku, it’s in tribute to one of my favourite paintings. King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid (1884, Edward Burne-Jones). It currently forms part of Tate Britain’s Pre-Raphaelite exhibition (Victorian Avant-Garde) although it has been on permanent display for a while in the main galleries.

I went to the exhibition today and to see it in the context of the other works was wonderful. I could have picked any one of a number of subjects, but this work always strikes me.

In summary, King Cophetua is transfixed and falls in love with a beautiful beggar girl Penelophon. In Burne-Jones’ painting, he paints her in a prominent position, elevated above the King, as if on a throne, he is her vassal. She looks beyond him, beyond the painting, she doesn’t meet our gaze either. She has a regal dignity, but also a humility. She is utterly beautiful. And he, seeing she ignores him, dares not approach, dares not be so bold as to sit next to her. He appears to remove his crown, to become the beggar, imploring her to be his bride. Love is the great leveller and this touching painting captures it so wonderfully.

Burne-Jones’ great friend William Morris was a staunch and principled socialist, so there is speculation that this painting is a homage to him, but whatever the inspiration, it sings. There is a tenseness and a tenderness, it talks of love and lust. And a hopefully happy future for the couple (and yes, they did live “happily ever after”).

Burne-Jones is my favourite of the Pre-Raphaelite painters, the subtlety of detail, the level of emotion conveyed in seemingly sullen faces. And the eyes, I am always drawn to the eyes. They take my breath away.

(image from Wikipedia, but images/painting owned by Tate)

November 24th

Degenerate art

a procession of mourners

pay their last respects

I was reading about “Degenerate Art” today, the label applied by the Nazi’s to any art which didn’t fit their ideals on realism, classically influenced art or promotion of the Reich. This meant that most modern art would be labelled degenerate, including art by such eminent German artists as Max Ernst and Otto Dix (both first world war veterans). Artists fled Germany, were prevented from working, or were in extreme cases, executed like poor Elfriede Lohse-Wächtler, through forced euthanasia.

The Nazi’s put on a show of Degenerate Art with dismissive labels, to instruct the populace as to why the works were degenerate. As this BBC article states.

An exhibition of confiscated works titled Entartete Kunst, which took place in Munich in July 1937, was advertised as "culture documents of the decadent work of Bolsheviks and Jews".

When I was on a Munich walking tour some years ago, the guide said that the Degenerate exhibition had several times the number of visitors as the officially endorsed Nazi art gallery next door. It seems the German people were not all taken in by this propaganda and were (privately) curious to make up their own minds.

Many art works were sold, many were destroyed.

Hitler himself was a frustrated artist, before taking up politics, he led a life of someone he would have labelled “degenerate” once he’d got into power. He painted detailed architecture and landscapes, his work was fairly boring it seems, lacking in emotion. Paul von Hindenburg, Hitler’s predecessor as Chancellor, one of the military and political heavyweights of the early part of the 20th century called him the “Bohemian Corporal”, due to his failure at becoming an artist and his low rank during World War 1.

It’s interesting to compare Hitler’s work (of which only a few examples of survive or are attributable to him) with Churchill, another keen painter. Churchill, suffering depression, his “black dog” for most of his life, saw art as a way of release, of coping, of coming to terms with the darkness. His book, “Painting as a Pastime” is a treat (D has a copy which is wonderful). You can feel that in his work, which although quite naive, is expressive.

Hitler, you can imagine, with his dedication to detail and buildings seemed emasculated and stifled by his inability to express.

Above: The Courtyard of the Old Residency in Munich (Adolf Hitler, 1913, Watercolour)

Sunset Over The Atlas Mountains (Winston Churchill, 1935).

September 21st

A penitent stag

the huntress fixed him, cursed him

run mute to your dogs

Yesterday I briefly visited the National Gallery, I wrote a one tweet poem for their competition relating to the Ovid / Metamorphoses exhibition they have there at the moment. The original poem I wrote is below. The above is the abridged Haiku version!

Of the Titian artworks on display, I chose the scene relating to Diana and Actaeon, the hunter meeting his match when he spies on the Goddess of the hunt Diana, who by way of punishment, turns him into a stag. He then gets stalked, run down and devoured by his own dogs.

(pic from wikipedia)

My original “one tweet” poem below, less than 140 characters of course.

#titianpoem He gasped, she turned, her fierce wisdom fixed him, froze him, a penitent stag, the huntress cursed him, run mute to your dogs

Co-incidentally I’d bought a second hand copy of Ted Hughes’ adaptation of Ovid’s work a couple of months ago. Before I visited I’d read a few passages. It’s steeped in Hughes’ descriptions of nature, of the wild. So vivid and powerful. My favourite passage from Diana and Actaeon was actually on the wall.

I copy an extract here (from the national gallery website), the late Ted Hughes is a wonderful poet.

……Actaeon
Stared at the goddess, who stared at him.
She twisted her breasts away, showing him her back.

Glaring at him over her shoulder
She blushed like a dawn cloud
In that twilit grotto of winking reflections,

And raged for a weapon – for her arrows
To drive through his body.
No weapon was to hand – only water.

So she scooped up a handful and dashed it
Into his astonished eyes, as she shouted:
'Now, if you can, tell how you saw me naked.'

That was all she said, but as she said it
Out of his forehead burst a rack of antlers.
His neck lengthened, narrowed, and his ears

Folded to whiskery points, his hands were hooves,
His arms long slender legs. His hunter's tunic
Slid from his dappled hide. With all this

The goddess
Poured a shocking stream of panic terror
Through his heart like blood. Actaeon

Bounded out across the cave's pool
In plunging leaps, amazed at his own lightness.
And there

Clear in the bulging mirror of his bow-wave
He glimpsed his antlered head,
And cried: 'What has happened to me?'

No words came. No sound came but a groan.
His only voice was a groan.
Human tears shone on his stag's face

……..

July 6th

my insignificance

in the majesty of stars

a lonely vigil

I popped into the new Edvard Munch exhibition at the Tate Modern after work. I rushed through as I wanted to get a taste for it, as a member I can visit anytime for a more leisurely (although leisurely may be the wrong word) visit at a later date. Munch is one of my favourite painters. The collection they’ve pulled together for this exhibition is great. There is an intense loneliness about his work.

For example, Starry Night. Initially it seems this is a celebration of stars and clear crisp nights. And indeed it is. But what appears to be the artists shadow thrown across the ground just speaks of loneliness and melancholy to me. How we are alone. It moves me. As does most of his work.

(pic from Tate website)

March 3rd

 

The art of seeing,

Shy colours revealed in light,

Patience rewarded.

 

Watched a BBC documentary about David Hockney, who is currently exhibiting some recent work of his native Yorkshire in the Royal Academy, entitled “A Bigger Picture”. He talked about the depth of colour in seemingly mundane scenes, somewhere which many would consider ordinary, not worthy of a second look.

All you have to do wait. And look. And that’s where the colours reveal themselves to you. He paints the same scenes throughout the seasons, in different weather and different light. Also at different times of day. The results are wonderful. I’m trying to do this myself too now (the “seeing” bit, not the painting bit!). We end up rushing everywhere, just a few minutes to take your breath and look and watch is so rewarding.

 

Hockney standing in front of one of his huge canvasses (actually 36 canvasses joined together!). Can’t wait to go later this month. Pic from the Telegraph website.