Greer Gilman's Blog, page 93

Kingdoms of Elfin

Why had I not heard of Warwick Goble (1862-1943)?  He was a close contemporary of Arthur Rackham's (1867-1939), and by unheavens, he did some gorgeous stuff.






Bird of Paradise
 
The Star Lovers
 






Moon Maiden
 
Espousal of the Rat's Daughter
 






The Vearies
 
Beechmast
 



 


"Sea nymphs hourly ring his knell..."
 
 




I stumbled on the "Star Lovers" while looking for images to jigsaw from Trina Schart Hyman's second Snow White, and thought, Oooh.  If there's ever a Japanese retelling of Cloud & Ashes...

Go, play with the linked galleries.  For lovers of Powell & Pressburger, there's a wonderful "Kelpie of Corryvreckan," illustrating a poem by Charles MacKay:


He mounted his steed of the water clear,
And sat on his saddle of sea-weed sere;
He held his bridle of strings of pearl,
Dug out of the depths where the sea-snakes curl...

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Mythpunk! Debunked?

Good heavens.  Here, have some Boskone.


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Hesperus is Phosphorus

...éala éarendel engla beorhtast...

Looking for images of stars as deities, I found this lovely "Hesperus" by Burne-Jones:










This Evelyn de Morgan of "Phosphorus and Hesperus" is (im)purest star slash.  "It rises?  Again?"  "O gods, not again."

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'

That long long trail...

Frank Buckles, the last American veteran of World War I, has died.  There are two frail British veterans still lingering:  a sailor, who witnessed the scuttling of the German fleet in Scapa Flow, and a waitress who did groundwork in the RAF.  And when they go, a world of memory will have gone with them:  a world of mud and fire, of blood in water, of haggard young men drinking coffee in the dawn with ghosts.

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Endgame

One of the more surreal hours at Boskone was a children's concert given by the Midnight Belles to three undead rubber garbage cans.  Inverted, they moved snailwise round and round each other, spirally; they bounded, wilder than dervishes, louder than drums; they wobbled, ranted, spun, and rolled; now and then, a pair of pale small arms (Beckettically emerging from the depths) would conduct the music.  negothick   and teenybuffalo   sang on undaunted, rather splendidly.

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Living with the Green Man

What do you make of this panel description?  "Living with the Green Man:  Do we mean (A) Composting or (B) Morris Dancers or (C) In the Land of Faeries? or (D). All or None of the Above? How do ancient traditions fit into modern life, and do we want them to?"

Do they mean, do you put milk out for the brownies?  Do you live Among Others?   Is your imagined green England in the middle of Sioux Falls?  Is your Celtic Twilight in Luton?  Or do they just expect us to talk about Green Men?  I foresee a mingle-mangle of cross conversations, which could be fascinating (the panelists are good) or otherwise.

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"New pheasant-feather pens, and two reams of the most expensive cream laid paper..."

Bob Slate is closing, the stationer to Mr. Earbrass and his spiritual heirs.  Anywhere else one can buy mere office supplies, the slick, the bulk, the interchangeable; but Slate's is particular.  Slate's is for scholars, poets, artists, aesthetes, and scribblers with that fine lefthand nib.  It is a joy just to pass their windows, and an everyday bliss to shop.  They have everything one could desire:  fine rag papers, inks, fountain pens (with grave consultants at the counter), notebooks, sketchbooks, artist's chalks and colored pencils in an infinitely shaded rainbow, lay figures, the absolute best greeting cards, wittiest or prettiest, and the most exquisite wrapping papers, worthy to be framed.  (Woodblock Chinese characters, black, white, and lacquer red; every named variety of berry; the sun, moon, and stars from old astrologies.  I can never bear to use the last few inches.)  If you have to have this pen or that folder, Slate's still carries it.  Slate's is where I get my toile de Jouy folders for readings and my peacock blue and green carriers.  Where else?  And every story I've written, every word, was typed or printed out on Slate's papers, watermarked for last drafts.  Slate's is where I once looked down at the ream I'd just carried to the cash desk and said, "Oh dear.  I seem to have gotten laid by mistake."

One by one they've closed, the glories of the old Square—the bookshops, backrooms, coffee houses, attics, and odd corners—whelmed now in a wilderness of mall.

Requiescat in papyro.

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Chatter

Here's my Boskone schedule, just in:

Saturday  10am     Kaffeeklatsch
        Greer Gilman    
        Jo Walton    

 Saturday  12:30pm  Reading: Greer Gilman (0.5 hrs)
        Greer Gilman    

 Saturday  3pm      Future English
        Suzy McKee Charnas    
        Debra Doyle    
        Greer Gilman    
        Jeffrey Jones        (M)
        Vandana Singh 
   
    The English language is an omnivore, and technology has given it new
    sources to feed on. What directions will this take it in?

 Saturday  4pm      Fairy Tales into Fantasy
        Greer Gilman    
        Theodora Goss        (M)
        Jack M. Haringa    
        Jane Yolen   
 
    A whole branch of fantasy literature is based on re-examining the
    assumptions of well-known fairy tales. Panelists discuss some of the
    best examples.

 Sunday    10am     Living with the Green Man
        Bruce Coville        (M)
        Greer Gilman    
        Beth Meacham    
        Jane Yolen  
 
    Living with the Green Man: Do we mean  (A) Composting or  (B) Morris
    Dancers or  (C) In the Land of Faeries?  or (D). All or None of the
    Above? How do ancient traditions fit into modern life, and do we
    want them to?

 Sunday    11am     Mythpunk
        Debra Doyle    
        Gregory Feeley    
        Greer Gilman    
        Theodora Goss    
        Michael Swanwick    

    Wikipedia says,"Described as a subgenre of mythic fiction,
    Catherynne M. Valente uses the term "mythpunk" to define a brand of
    speculative fiction which starts in folklore and myth and adds
    elements of postmodern fantastic techniques: urban fantasy,
    confessional poetry, nonlinear storytelling, linguistic
    calisthenics, worldbuilding, and academic fantasy. Writers whose
    works would fall under the mythpunk label are Valente, Ekaterina
    Sedia, Theodora Goss, and Sonya Taaffe." And what do WE say?

 Sunday    1pm     SCA: Living the Modern Middle Ages      
        Karen Anderson        (M)
        Greer Gilman    
        Robert Kuhn    
        Jennifer Pelland    
        Faye Ringel    

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Musée des Beaux Arts

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Beauty crieth in an attic

A lovely long weekend in Montreal with papersky   and rysmiel  , though a day delayed (Wednesday turning out to be a mewling blizzard into which no buses ran).  I rejoiced in an excellent city to explore and the kindest of hosts.  Just the conversations over pots of tea would have been vaux le voyage; but we ventured out to a Chinese teashop in the Old Port and a secondhand bookshop with lavender stairs near McGill, and to three very fine museums.  Sadly, the Inuit collections of La Musée des beaux-arts were under reconstruction, but the European galleries are full of the offbeat and unexpected.  The McCord had two very nice temporary shows, one of Karsh and Steichen portraits and another of toys (irresistibly laid out as a playroom), as well as artefacts of Montreal history and culture.  And the Redpath at McGill has marvellous shells and minerals, and a strong teaching gallery of fossils with terrific wall charts, though their ethnography cases could use updating (golly, aren't these people quaint?).
 

Stowed away in a Montreal lumber room
The Discobolus standeth and turneth his face to the wall;
Dusty, cobweb-covered, maimed and set at naught,
Beauty crieth in an attic and no man regardeth:
      O God!  O Montreal!

Beautiful by night and day, beautiful in summer and winter,
Whole or maimed, always and alike beautiful -
He preacheth gospel of grace to the skin of owls
And to one who seasoneth the skins of Canadian owls:
      O God!  O Montreal!

On Saturday they gave a dinner party, with excellent company and magnificent food (papersky  cooked up a storm).

And on Thursday, we saw a live broadcast from London of Derek Jacobi's astounding King Lear:  a breathtaking, brutal, exhilarating show, which I have just had the luxury of seeing again with sovay 

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