[image_with_animation image_url=”10521″ alignment=”center” animation=”None” box_shadow=”none” max_width=”100%”] I posted some paintings of feet recently. Here is something to cleanse the olfactory palette: Flowers in pots, by Odilon Redon – a French symbolist painter who lived from 1929–1983.
Symbolist painters believed that art should reflect an emotion or idea rather than represent the natural world with realism or the observational science of impressionism. Symbolists felt that the value or meaning of art came from the evocation of emotional experiences in the viewer. The Symbolists sought escape from reality, expressing their personal dreams and visions through color, form, and composition. They preferred broad strokes of unmodulated color and flat abstracted forms. The goal of Symbolist painting was a synthesis of form and feeling, of reality and the artist’s internal experience.
“The good work proceeds with tenacity, intention without interruption, with an equal measure of passion and reason and it must surpass that goal the artist has set for himself.” – Odilon Redon
These paintings are not strong in Symbolism, I see them more as still life practice for Redon, but there is some measure of emotion, a bit of dreamlike quality in and around the tender leaves.
The Geranium – Poem by Theodore Roethke
When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine–
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she’d lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!–
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing booze at her,
She leaning out of her pot toward the window.
Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me–
And that was scary–
So when that snuffling cretin of a maid
Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.
But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.
“Winter solitude- in a world of one color the sound of the wind.” ― Bashō Matsuo From yesterday’s post: As a child, I collected the little cards with Japanese prints that came in …
[image_with_animation image_url=”9160″ alignment=”” animation=”Fade In” box_shadow=”none” max_width=”100%”] Siobhán Wilder, Indian Alley, oil on panel, 10×8″ League painter Siobhán Wilder was chosen for an online critique through Clara Lieu’s Art Prof site, …
Flowers in a Pot, by Odilon Redon
[image_with_animation image_url=”10521″ alignment=”center” animation=”None” box_shadow=”none” max_width=”100%”] I posted some paintings of feet recently. Here is something to cleanse the olfactory palette: Flowers in pots, by Odilon Redon – a French symbolist painter who lived from 1929–1983.
Symbolist painters believed that art should reflect an emotion or idea rather than represent the natural world with realism or the observational science of impressionism. Symbolists felt that the value or meaning of art came from the evocation of emotional experiences in the viewer. The Symbolists sought escape from reality, expressing their personal dreams and visions through color, form, and composition. They preferred broad strokes of unmodulated color and flat abstracted forms. The goal of Symbolist painting was a synthesis of form and feeling, of reality and the artist’s internal experience.
The Geranium – Poem by Theodore Roethke
When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,
She looked so limp and bedraggled,
So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,
Or a wizened aster in late September,
I brought her back in again
For a new routine–
Vitamins, water, and whatever
Sustenance seemed sensible
At the time: she’d lived
So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,
Her shriveled petals falling
On the faded carpet, the stale
Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.
(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!–
The dumb dames shrieking half the night
Or the two of us, alone, both seedy,
Me breathing booze at her,
She leaning out of her pot toward the window.
Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me–
And that was scary–
So when that snuffling cretin of a maid
Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can,
I said nothing.
But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,
I was that lonely.
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