Snow. Snow snow. Snow snow snow… As with other words, repeated it becomes strange, a meaningless sound, a feel of tongue and teeth and lips. Words. Not the thing itself, not at all. Else we would stop each time some words are said, stop to feel the crystals melt on the tongue, face lifted to the sky, face brushed with kisses.

Walked in, played with, fallen into, more like a heaven of white and joy. The magical, the mystical, the miracle of timelessness.

in the stillness of the night barbara klonowo

in the stillness of the night…by barbara klonowo

Thank God the snow has at last begun, winter has at last appeared, our coats now matter, zippers pulled tight. And we can know we belong to this earth, this place where each portion of the year has earned our respect, our love, and often—our sweet surprise. The light upon the earth has begun.

Oh Dear

And Oh My! I saw this and could only puzzle over it. I don’t know the artist or the location or the time period. Someone did point out the shoes, suggesting the Netherlands or Holland. I suppose the time  period is irrelevant. But I don’t know the suggested meaning. A title by the artist always helps a great deal. At least it could point us in the right direction.

the psychedelic museum

The Psychedelic Museum

I understand that meaning is subjective and we can take or give whatever it is that is suggested to us. But. When I look at this I wonder if it is the skeleton of the person who lives here or if the skeleton is waiting for the person who lives here.

Or. Does the skeleton not exist for the person who lives there, the unbidden reminder of the death that awaits us all? Is it a specter? Is it that one place is set and the other is forever waiting for what or who will join us?

I do note that the skeleton is quite tired, his (or her) head tilted downward. And yet, the candle is still lit, and is new. In any case, I am fascinated by this portrait of puzzlement. Oh…oh…another thought. Is it perhaps Time that is waiting and dying at the table we have yet to join?

So you see, wouldn’t a title help? Or is one of the central reasons this is so enchanting that we don’t know?

Another Glimpse Of Egon Schiele

Egon Schiele-Seated women with bent knee,1917 (Although Egon was an apprentice of Gustav Klimt he took a different approach with his art,he was quit controversial at his time for his nud

Egon Schiele—Seated women with bent knee, 1917. (Although Egon was an apprentice of Gustav Klimt he took a different approach with his art; he was quite controversial at his time for his nudes.

In April 1912 he had been arrested for seducing a young girl below the age of consent. When the police came to his studio to place him under arrest, they seized more than a hundred drawings which they considered pornographic. Schiele was imprisoned while awaiting his trial. When his case was brought before a judge, the charges of seduction and abduction were dropped, but the artist was found guilty of exhibiting erotic drawings in a place accessible to children. In court, the judge burned one of the offending drawings over a candle flame. The twenty-one days he had already spent in custody were taken into account, and he was sentenced to a further three days’ imprisonment. Controversial doesn’t seem to quite cover it, does it?

Schiele is now obtaining a renewed appreciation. Egon was always venerated by connoisseurs who valued the line, placement, form, and the shear edginess of his artistic expression. Today he is gathering a much wider appeal. In fact, he is discussed by an art critic in a current Sundance series on T.V.

And as a sidenote, nudes in the artworld and public world have always been at odds it seems. I wonder, might it be interesting to know how many artists have not done nudes? Excluding of course, those practicing the landscape, floral, and the like expressions of art.

Christmas Memories

Timoléon Marie Lobrichon, the toy shop showcase, 1880.

Timoléon Marie Lobrichon, the toy shop showcase, 1880

I saw this and it reminded me of my childhood and looking into the magic of display. There was a department store which did a full front and side windows of Christmas Splendor. There were the regular things: a doll, a train, a wagon, and all of the other toy fashions of the day. And there would also be the extraordinary, maybe a horse and cart that moved, or an animated drummer. Crowds would gather to watch the display done up in snowy enchantment. Children dreamed and wished as they stood in amazement in the snow of winter, looking into a department store window.

Myth and Mystery

I always thought that knowing something was a myth, just like other myths, with the archetypal features and formulated events, was just that, a shruggable thing even more so when its concept was Universal. To the Catholic Church, that was confirmation that The Event was real and true, and all in foretelling the Truth to come, the Virgin Birth of Jesus Christ, Lord and God.

So it came to pass that the Virgin Mary was beyond Sainthood. As she was to be The Mother of God, she was born without sin. This made it possible for her, in her purity, to accept God Himself. Thus impregnated by Spirit she could bring forth The Son.

But wait. When you think about it, really think about it, it is the very same. Not special, not different in that now it is True because it is our myth. The Virgin Mary, the Spirit that impregnates, and the Son—a demi God, Or God Himself—that’s the story. The very same play in three acts.

Think Leda and the Swan. Leda, raped by Zeus in the form of a swan, is impregnated. She gives birth to Helen and Polydeuses, who is immortal. Helen’s power was in her beauty, the most beautiful of all women. This story is told in Greek Mythology, and we all know the tale of Helen of Troy. The face that launched a thousand ships.

In Ovid’s story of Europa and the Beautiful White Bull, or The Rape of Europa, the event is consummated by Jupiter. Europa then gives birth to Minos, king of Crete and the Minoans, the first European civilization.

Great and momentous results come from all of the stories. But note this: the women are not asked. There is no choice. None. It is done to them. They are raped. There is no discussion, no ability to have an informed consent. Some God becomes enraptured by a beautiful woman. As a result of that infatuation the God takes the form of something else (usually an animal) and has his way. The result is something marvelous, another God, or least of all, a demi-God. But the impregnating beast doesn’t hang around. She will raise the child or children without the Father.

From the foundation of the bestial we get the marvel, the glory, the triumphant.

In Mary’s case, an angel—Gabriel—appears to her and…we all know the story from there.

But the question is this: the myth that lives within the psyche of all of us, is it there because it is true? Or is it there because that is what we need to create? To give us comfort, to let us feel less alone? In any case, we get the story that we cling to. And the beast is forgotten.

The New Yorker Page Liked · 4 hrs · Today's daily cartoon by Maddie Dai.

The New Yorker — cartoon by Maddie Dai

And, lest we forget, this is the story, in the poem by Yeats. And in the end, there is the still, indifferent beak.

Leda and the Swan

W. B. Yeats, 18651939

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
                    Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?