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Guess Who (by artist's works!)
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It so happens I am sick of being a man. (Chaim Soutine)
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I've got it. Shall I let others have a chance at this one?
Within Seven minutes!!!You're too good for this thing ;-)
Was it that easy?
Or is the list getting too short ;-)
Not Kandinsky...How good I am depends on what period of art you are posting.
Sorry Ruth, we had Kandisky on:Apr 19, 2019 01:22AM
And I'm trying to avoid posting an artist twice. (That's why after 60+ artists the list of more or less known artists is getting shorter every time .)
Geoffrey wrote: "it's messy like nolde's work"You have a point Geoffrey, his style is very similar, but it's not Nolde.
Wrong nationality.
Almost 24 hours, so here’s a second pic:
And the poem complete:It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don’t want so much misery.
I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
Pablo Neruda
Wonderful poem. I love that you’re pairing poetry and art, my two main interests.
Ruth wrote: "Wonderful poem. I love that you’re pairing poetry and art, my two main interests."You know I spend sometimes more time searching for a fitting line than I do for choosing a painting ;-)
And once in a while I hit on a pearl like this, I do not pretend to understand in all, but I do get the feeling...
Geoffrey wrote: "kokoshka"We had Kokoshka already on May 18, 2019 07:36AM
But they have indeed a similar style.
sorry, I am missing some threads. That's why I don't know if it's been played.
Yes, a very apt choice of poem for this artist.
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.