ink, acrylic, paper collage on paper
More studies, more experiments, more practice, more discoveries - all for a future painting that I haven't even begun to sketch yet. This time, I'm testing ideas for a background, with Wallace Stevens on the brain. Specifically, Sunday Morning, a poem with special resonance for both me and the subject of my painting. In the fourth section of the poem, Stevens writes:
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”
There is not any haunt of prophecy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured
As April’s green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow’s wings.
2 comments:
This one is absolutely stunning-- not that they aren't all, but this one really hits a nerve in me :).
Thanks, Abigail. This poem is ... so powerful. Have you read it? Stevens reminds us to find our heaven, our divine, our moral center, our religion - in ourselves. This image - June and evening, tipped by the consummation of swallow's wings - always catches in my throat like a sob.
It was Herb's favorite Stevens poem. He loved the final image in the last stanza. I don't remember the sound of his voice as he read it, just his hands, the fluttering-down gesture he always made at the final image, his characteristic injection - "y'see?" he'd ask, meeting your eyes - and reading the last lines of the last stanza, again.
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