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Author: penwithlit
Freelance writer and radio presenter
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Ein schöner, alter Garten war…
A rather sad poem where the garden seems a possible metaphor for the state of the World. Shakespeare of course often portrayed England as a garden!
Pierre-Auguste Renoir: Roseraie à Wargemont (1879)
Der alte Garten
Ein schöner, alter Garten war,
Nach Rosen roch es wunderbar:
Hoch wuchsen sie an Wegen,
Die schön ums Haus gelegen.
Er bot ein angenehmes Bild,
War nicht zu streng und nicht zu wild
Und Kunst tat ihn vollenden –
Er war in guten Händen.
Der alte Gärtner aber starb
Und der das Gartenamt erwarb,
Behalf sich mit zwei neuen,
Den Garten zu betreuen.
Der wollt ihn so erhalten,
Sie wollten umgestalten –
Was soll’s, er wurde überstimmt
Und war nicht einmal sehr ergrimmt.
Dem einen schien figürlich
Der Garten unnatürlich,
Dem andern schien er nutzlos schön,
Wollt drin Gemüse wachsen sehn.
Begann auch gleich zu planen
Und weil man Streit konnt ahnen,
So wurde rasch und übereilt
Der alte Garten aufgeteilt.
Die Rosen rissen beide aus
Und schnell verfiel das Herrenhaus,
Man konnt’s auf beiden Seiten
Nicht brauchen und nicht leiden.
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The film of a butterfly ensures that it is dead:
Its silence like the green cocoon of the car-wash,
Its passion for water to uncloud.
In the Japanese tea house they believe
In making the most of the bright nights:
That the front of a leaf is male, the back female.
There are grass stains on their white stockings;
In artificial sun even the sound are disposable;
The mosaic of their wings is spun from blood.
Cyanide in the killing jar relaxes the Indian moon moth,
The pearl-bordered beauty, the clouded yellow,
The painted lady, the silver-washed blue.
I think this is a really interesting and beautiful poem and found in a collection by Ruth Padel at https://www.amazon.co.uk/52-Ways-Looking-At-Poem/dp/0099429152/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1510774406&sr=1-3&keywords=ruth+padel
Just beyond Truro if anyone going to see Autumn colours in the Roseland.
I am delighted to be exhibiting some of my paintings and etchings at Tregony Gallery’s Winter Show. Taking it’s title from the diminishing light as we enter into the Winter months, ‘Drawing In’ is the first exhibition at Tregony Gallery dedicated to the practice of drawing. Introducing newly represented artists Nicky Knowles, Steven Hubbard and Claire Ireland.
Far from being simply the foundation by which artworks are created, the variety of exhibited work forms a rich landscape of technique and sensibility. From diffuse textural palettes of Meg Buick, Nicole Price, Mark Hanson, Dana Finch and Sara Lee Roberts to marked·pressure points and purity of line of Gethin Evans, Daniel Preece, Judi Green, Kay Vinson and Mark Dunford.
‘Drawing In’ offers a way to see gallery artists at new and revealing depths.
Our Private View is Sunday 12 November 2 – 4pm. The show opens Tuesday 14 November
‘Dawn’ – Etching…
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DANIELE TAMAGNI
Here’s a selection of drawings produced by BA(Hons) Drawing students at the North Cornwall Book Festival as part of their recent study visit:
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WILLIAM HOGARTH
I recently reviewed a new fictionalised biography of this intriguing artist. His work helped realise the dangers of cheap gin becoming popular and with the recent fashion for this drink his engraving might again become popular. There is a great Chinese Restaurant in Hogarth Road near Earl’s Court called No 10 http://www.no10restaurant.co.uk/
Listening to tracks on You Tube I came across two groups who were entirely new to me but both of which I found appealing:-
First – Reina del Cid
Secondly – The Avalon Jazz Band
From a Jazz Day at Trerife (Near Penzance)
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Blumenfrau • Flower Lady
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Short Story
A really vivid story from Kate -love the atmosphere and the malachite! I wonder if this was based on a real experience?
Sunbeams bounce off the bonnets of the parked Ladas which flank the deserted Czech street. She doesn’t know how to deal with her first Prague summer. It’s a city that lends itself to the friendly white muffler of the winter, when the icing on the buildings accentuates their beauty.
There is something sinister about the golden stifling heat and the harsh empty brightness. She glances down the steep cobbled street from the corner of her narrow balcony. Nobody is out there. It feels as though they know something she doesn’t.
After half an hour of crackling World Service and a cup of black tea with lemon she locks the door of her apartment and strolls slowly down Madridska street, past the grocers with the Kiwi fruits which nestle luxuriantly amidst the potatoes, onions and jars of pickled things.
Her slightly stooped, grey haired student peers through the glass doors of…
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penwithlit 