Art Of The Day!
This is one of Francisco Goya’s lighter works. He had quite the dark side that often showed up on the canvas. This painting is different. Dona Isabel Cobos De Procel. Now there’s a name for you. She is delightful. Beautiful radiant skin. Soft shining eyes. A slight subtle smile. And just look how she’s sitting. Firmly ensconced. Like she is thoroughly enjoying being the artist’s model. And who wouldn’t if you were going to turn out looking that good. The lace is magnificent. The tiny piece of mocha colored satin at her wrist almost rustles into life. Not the most delicate of hands but refined nonetheless. What does she think as she sits there? Is she feeling proud? Formal? Wanted and desired? What thoughts stir her heart, lift her soul, fill her with wonderment? She’s not a thin woman. She fills out her dress just as she fills out the canvas. I can imagine that walking into a room all eyes would instantly lust after her presence. There is a sweet innocence to her eyes. Goya captured her most magnificently wouldn’t you agree?
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Happiness hanging on a wash line. Little joyous thoughts sandwiched between despair. Hope eternal along the blue vein of renewal. Not all seven billion are standing in neat little rows. Some of us mark our individuality. We stand out. Sometimes boldly. Offering the world our own unique color and perspective. Shaped differently yet each connected to the same past, present, and future. The uncommon still unites with the common. We are after all one species hanging out, hooked into humanity, whether we like it or not.
Image Courtesy of: FreeDigitalPhotos.net
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Trapped. Forlorn. Long forgotten. A distant memory. Aching. Regretting. Lonely. Quiet. Looking out of window? Through a mirror? Trunk of tree? What thoughts swirl through her head? How does she feel? Why is she there in the first place? Can she get out? Escape? Why has nobody come to rescue her? Are there intermittent screams, wails, and moans? Or is she mute? I feel her despair. Her anguish. Her sorrow.
Painting by Fernand Khnopff
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Just look at that. The buffalo takes center stage but the storm rumbles in gallantly nonetheless. The quiet before the thrash of thunder. The softening light before violent blades of lightning strike. The air churning with expectant electricity. Lush vegetation bracing itself for energized ions zapping moisture, singing leaf, flaying trees, stabbing fiery fingers from heaven deep into the potent soil. The buffalo sips water as it waits for the rains to come.
before-the-storm-by-bierstadt
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Strength. Conviction. Passion. Purpose. Pride. She knows her craft and she’s not afraid to use it. She has a glammoring. A sense of rising. Dominant. A much larger presence than her surroundings. Filling empty space completely. Electrifying the air. She won’t back down. Refuses to let go. She will stare you down. Cause you to cower. Lower your eyes. She is mistress and she knows it. Look at her focus. Undisturbed. Piercing. Seeing into the mists and depths. You can’t fool her and she knows it. I imagine a cacophony behind her. Women wailing, chanting, moaning, conjuring, but she’s oblivious to it all. She’s fine tuned her mind. A complete study in focused concentration. She holds no doubts whatsoever that her mission will be accomplished. And you mere mortal will see her powers put to work.
hygeia-by-klimt
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I’m a little lost at these two. How is it possible to stand in the midst of such watery turmoil? Where is the path that led them there? Why are their clothes not sodden and weighted down? How can they stand so gaily without any suggestion of struggle against waves and undercurrents? Are they real? Two spirits that were lost at sea? The painting almost suggests that the water is parting to let them through, but through from where and to what? Did they spring up on a surge of water from nowhere? It is an enigma. But take a look at the waves in the foreground. See all those little pieces of debris? Seaweed and possibly bits of mermaids purses. You can almost smell the salty brine. Feel the the ebb and flow. Hear the crash and roar of crests and undulations. And just to the left at mid-line, do you see the rocks? A wonderful portrayal of transparency with a subtle opaqueness. The winds and swells of water churn sea foam into existence. There will be a huge pull of water when that wave in the foreground retreats.
What Freedom By Ilya Repin
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He straddles a sturdy rock. Focused on the periphery. Something has caught the attention. Turned the eye. What could be more intriguing than the limp skin he holds in his hand? How did this happen? Where are the bones? How was a whole skin removed in one piece? Why was it done? Who was it done to? The solid rock, the strong body, in complete contrast to the thin membrane at his feet. Why did Michelangelo paint this? What was he thinking? How did he imagine the whole skin of a human being fillet from its bone? What did the people of the time think of this work? I want to know more don’t you?
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Franz Von Stuck did an outstanding job with this piece called, “Warrior!” Just look at him. What strength. See how he moves swiftly and with purpose, full of determination, there is no stopping him. He has focus and will see his mission accomplished. He wields his blade with ease. Cutting through anything that comes into contact with it like a knife through butter. Observe the people around him. Look at their self-protective stances. They fear him. What caused this warriors fury? What sent him on this bloody rampage? What will it take for him to halt? The colors in this painting set the tone perfectly. Dark and brooding, full of shadow and a blur of despair. Though the colors are somber and muted they are crisp in their meaning. Vengeance is moving. Cutting a wicked path. Watch out.
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I love this piece. Van Gogh was certainly in his element when he painted this. Just look at that light. It infuses a sense of warmth and stillness. A winding down of the day. Soft touches and gentle whispers. A steadying of the night. Quiet tasks. Contemplating the earlier hours, its chores and all that was accomplished. At last a reprieve from daily labor. A slowing of the heart and breath. A few precious moments to catch ones thoughts and nurture ones feelings before finally retiring for the night. Look at the colors Van Gogh used for the light. Almost like seeing a beautiful oil slick. Close to iridescent. Awash with a fine glow. He was a master in turning simple lines into great beauty.
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This piece is called, “Fighting Forms” By Franz Marc. I can see why he gave it this title. Look at the profusion of color, struggling, clashing, vying for the right to be prominent. I’m enjoying how the two central pieces curl in contrast to the periphery shapes. This piece has all the suggestions of dominance. It is powerful in its presence. Stirring to the senses. Magnetizing in its imagery. Note that from the upper left corner down to the lower right corner how the colors shift from brights to somber. There is a dramatic pull to this piece of art. It doesn’t offer serenity but instead infuses the observer with an explosion of vibrancy. This is a splendid piece of abstract art.
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Just look at that little tyke! Oh boy is she ever full of mischief. Easily bored. Not going to cooperate. Short attention span. Intense. Easily excitable. A little on the moody side of life. Look how she’s sitting. Fed up. Has no idea what to do next. I can just imagine her little legs swinging as she lets her feet kick against the chair. I doubt very seriously if she will let that little dog lay there quietly for too much longer. I give her a few more seconds before she leaps up with a huge puff of a sigh, stomping her feet and frowning as she heads out of the door looking for someone she can irritate. She’s brilliant. And Cassatt did an excellent job of capturing her mood precisely.
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This piece is called, “Evangelist Mathew and the angel” by Rembrandt. I wonder, is it really an angel, or can angels also be muses? She’s certainly intent on being heard. Look how he sits, one hand poised over paper ready to pen something new, the other hand thoughtfully touching his chin, as though he is waiting for his next piece of inspiration. And then there’s the ‘angel’ look how her hand is touching his shoulder to catch his attention, almost as if she is non-verbally saying, “wait, what about this?” Their eyes are looking in the same direction. What is it that’s out of our view? What is it they see? What is holding their interest so raptly? She leans closer whispering into his ear, his mind, filling his senses with something new and quite unexpected. Although he holds the pen and commands the paper it is she who has the authority. It is her will that shall be done.
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What does he dream? Flights of freedom? Remembering his homeland? Exhausted from a hard days work. Every muscle aching. Catching a few moments of quiet rest before laboring again. Half sleeping, half listening. One hand grips the stool just in case a quick response is needed. Spring to feet. Look alert. Offer no indication that any stolen moments of slumber were taken. Every fiber of his being is clenched. Indentured life. Cezanne captured the mood beautifully.
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He sows his seeds in the rich ripe earth. The sun comes up steadily behind him. The heat of the day has just begun. It’s a muted heat though as we can tell from the tree leaning into him, almost as if it were whispering, “Yes, here, plant here, at my roots, and in the long hot summer months I will provide the shade.” The tree limbs are almost bare, the man is wrapped in thick dark clothing, we know instinctively that winter is at hand. He traverses his terrain with care sowing as he goes. In a few months as the sun’s orb shifts in the sky new shoots of life will appear. A welcome harvest for the village. The colors here are muted, just as they should be for a wintry painting. Savor the flows of blues with a wild streak or red. A little green to remind us that spring will soon return and winter has not claimed everything just yet. The browns are not dreary but stand as a reminder that some things will endure the harshness of even the bitterest weather to come. Trees hibernate, seeds lay dormant, and man, as ever, waits. The man’s sowing hand looks slightly larger than his other hand, and this is just as it should be. The sowing hand is the giving hand. It is always best to give generously and without restraint.
The Sower by Vincent Van Gogh
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Night. Tranquil. Resplendent in blue. Soft. A long day past. A much awaited for unwinding. A gentle bed. A puffed pillow. Celestial sounds of sea, sand, and stars. A rolling in of misty cloud. The warm caress of delicate undulating hills. A rounded horizon offering the senses a slip of the edge of now and dreaming into something other. This painting is called Barcelona – view of the city by night ~ By Walter Gramatte. Its simplicity is what’s breathtaking. You can almost hear those palm fronds lullaby you off to sleep.
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What devilish delights has she concocted in that bowl of hers? What gift is she offering? Her magic hidden behind layers of darkness. The canvas portrays it beautifully. Dark and mysterious, even her dress, the color of a midnight sky, and dangling from her lobe, a little planet. This is Circe by Franz Von Stuck. Circe, that dark goddess, the one who turns men into animals with her herbs and potions. She’s intent on transforming someone. Beware mortal, she doesn’t take being offended lightly.
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Look at this. Isn’t it amazing how a few strategically placed lines and a gentle shift in color can add the illusion of movement. Look at those ripples. You can almost see the boats bobbing in the water. This is a great effect.
Sailboats in Wellenbewegtern water by Egon Schiele
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He sits by his little fire. Edging closer for a little more warmth. He’s been using the roof of his little shelter to kindle the flames. But what will he do when the roof is all gone? Burn the little basket that he sits on? And after that, what? This is humanity. That hard part of existence that we don’t want to look at let alone acknowledge. But it’s real. It is happening. And it is with us whether we like it or not. Such a little thing. Such a huge impact. One little soul among so many. Trying his best to make it.
Epiphany By Bosch
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You’re on this street. It’s the beginning of a hectic day. There are sights, sounds, and smells all around you. You try to take in the panorama of daily living. Look over there, the shutters are creaking open. Women are shouting to one another. Laundry will soon be scrubbed and hung out in the noon day sun to dry. Kids skip off to school, little ones whine and wail not wanting to be dragged to the bakers. Horses hoofs scrape the cobblestones impatiently. The smell of their sweat permeates the air. Men begin bartering. Cobbled shoes clack across the busy street. Carriage wheels clatter down lanes. And this is just one morning of many.
Buses on the Pigalle place in Paris by Giovanni Boldini
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This is a fine painting. The colors are beautiful. It has a soft reflection. The woman stooping in the large wash basin. Large enough to actually sit in yet she chooses to stand. Look at the prominence of her spine through delicate skin as she bends forward. Her sponge laps up what little water there is. And just look at that water. Almost iridescent in appearance. Gentle ripples of soft violets, blues, and a little brown for human reflection. What is her story? Will she attempt to wash her hair? It is still wrapped up in a bun, so perhaps not. What time of day is it? Why the tin tub instead of a full size bath? What fragrances will she use? Does she consider it hard work to keep bending to gather more water? Note the curtains, a little too long for the window. I wonder how often she sits in that velvet chair. And see how the light catches the flame of red hair. Exquisite.
The Tub By Degas
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Stunning. This painting captures the Aurora Borealis perfectly. Just look how magnificent it is. Awe inspiring. Like stepping up to the rim of the Grand Canyon and seeing yourself for the first time in the grand scheme of things. You, so small, and it, so big. Breathtaking. The painter has truly captured the essence of this natural wonder on canvas. That little ship, like the ship of the soul, painted in perspective against the vastness of this amazing universe and all of its visual delights.
Painting by Frederick Edwin Church
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Stunning. Look at the quality of this work. Just step back for a moment, take your time to pause and reflect. The colors offer an almost pearlized existence. Luminescent in its subtle tones. There seems to be a reverential hushed presence. A peaceful evening descending. Unwinding slowly, methodically from the daily grind. The two trees, majestic but not overbearing. Leaning into the other. Commiserating that winter will soon be here. A few leaves of autumn remain. Just one inconsequential ribbon of wind and the last leaves will flutter to the ground, nurturing the soil for next season. There is not a chill in the air but there certainly is a sense of stirring. Look at those clouds. Temperamental blackened fingers stretching across the burnt embers of twilight sky. Wisps of possible promises of rain. A thickened bush behind the hut. Night creatures begin scuffling creating rustling sounds within dense foliage. And the field in front kissed by the last rays of daylight. Slowly the warmth of the earth will retreat and night will frost over the land. And the hut itself, uneven in its thatch. Slanted. Weary. Yet holding on. And did you see what seems to suggest a little mismatched fence along the far right of the canvas. A little tell-tale sign of order surrounding wild nature. There’s a figure slightly obscured by shadow. You can almost imagine her skirts shifting as she waddles inside, sidles up to the hearth, leans over the one cooking pot, stirs the stew, then sits her weary limbs on an old wooden and creaking chair. Resting, just for a moment. Eyes closed briefly. Breath escaping in shallow short puffs, as she almost, almost falls into nocturnal slumber. But she has tasks left to do before this night is through. And just to the right of the dimmed door see what appears to be a chopping block. Much wood needs splitting before the real turn of the winter weather begins. This painting offers us the quietness, the shifting of light and duties, the settling in for a long blustery night, maybe even the calmed hush before the violent midnight storm. The last crow of the day caws, reminding the hut dwellers that carrion lay just outside the perimeters of their pinched threshold. Wild calls to wild. A beautiful blush tints the landscape. Could it be the shyness of autumn being touched by the forelock of winter causing her to recede back into shadow until the wheel of the seasons turn back to her again? As the good-woman of the house begins to shutter out the darkness for one more hunkered in night.
Straw Hut At Dusk By Vincent Van Gogh
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Take a look at the intensity in this painting. Just look at that ship. Struggling against deep and swift undercurrents. You can almost hear the oars creak as they dive back into the reckless waters to try and steer the vessel into safer territory. Can you hear the men shouting to one another, desperately trying to be heard above the crashing of wave upon wave? Muscles tense. Emotions taut. Life and death are in the balance and no man on board has control. Each soul at the mercy of a merciless sea. Yet although the ocean swells and pulls creating strong vortexes of resistance, look at how beautiful it is. A slight transparency where the light penetrates the surface. Lush colors mingled. A few bubbles. Mounting foam. The sure sign of a coming storm. Look at the sails. Stretching against the winds. It is fitting that this piece is entitled, “Wrath of the sea God!” Can you sense him in all his fury? Can you hear him roar, “Who dare try to glide across my surface without my permission?” A masterful piece of art indeed.
Wrath of the sea God by Herbert Draper
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What is she thinking as she looks up into the heavens? Redemption? Hoping someone will hand her a coin for a small trinket in her basket? Wishing that her life would turn around? Hope? Yearning for the day of humble begging to finally be over? Pondering why the rays of the sun should shine so brightly on her little soul? Does her stomach growl as she waits? Are her eyes dry and tired? Do her feet ache? When was the last time she had a hot nourishing meal? Does she have a family? And if so, are they all out begging too? She looks up when she could just as easily look down. Give up. Feel ashamed. Her strength is in her upward stare. Her far flung gaze. The mystery in her eyes. She might be down but she is far from losing all of her hope. It seems that even in the midst of her despair compassion still reigns in her heart. What a treasure she is.
The Golden Rays By Herbert Draper
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