the sun’s thumbprint melting into the river…
Claire Pestaille
Carmen Dell’Orifice, New York (1947) 2010
Collage
(22.5 x 18 cm)
‘That night two lovers whispering under the lead canopy of the church were killed by their own passion. Their effusion of words, unable to escape through the Saturnian discipline of lead, so filled the spaces of the loft that the air was all driven away. The lovers suffocated, but when the sacristan opened the tiny door the words tumbled him over in their desire to be free, and they were seen flying across the city in the shape of doves’.
- from Jeanette Winterson’s Sexing the Cherry (1989).
- photo by me.
At the heart of the Dulwich Picture Gallery, sits a mausoleum where the three sepulchers of Sir Francis Bourgeois and Noel and Margaret Desenfans are housed. Designed by Sir John Soane, the capricious gold and orange glass scatters the small space with tessellated light. Not a dome, but a cube: transcendent but not ascendent, this is a place of rest, touched by the angels, but not elevating itself to their realm.
It is hard to believe that, on the 12th July, 1944, the building received a direct hit during an air raid: allegedly, bones were scattered across the lawn in front of the gallery. Wikipedia dryly states: ‘the three sarcophogae in the mausoleum now once again contain approximately one skeleton each.’
Is this then a touch? quivering me to a new identity,
Flames and ether making a rush for my veins,
Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them,
My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly
different from myself
—Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, 28.
A beautiful still from “Lost in Translation”.
(Source: , via lebasiana)
“Sunlight is painting”, Nathaniel Hawthorne (photo by me).
Cloud Dream
(via viciouslycyd)
Popped through Somerset House again today, and had another quick look around the Tim Walker exhibition. Noticed this picture that I’d missed the last time. I love the contrast of the delicate gauze at her neck and the twisted cotton wool at her wrists that looks like the ribbed sleeves of a knitted sweater: and her slender, chalk white hands: and the few pearls before her, glinting like scattered parts of some near-abandoned galaxy.
Quiet, aching creature,
do not cry:
Though the arms you reach out to
stay crossed,
lift your own a little more.
Do not let them fall
to your pale sides.
do not lock them tight
across your heart.
Things to be grateful for this Christmas
Plants that look like bristly pompoms and winter sunshine.
Happy families and ice cream
All the tiny little fishies (and the idea of those foot-nibbling fish pedicures - I want to try one of them)!
MAGIC!
Sun, Salt, Sea and beautiful friends.
Fine art, and resourcefulness.
Tea, craft and cakes with friends (and check out that tea cosy).
Smiling children (and the first time you ever smelt basil)
Smiling grown ups!
The existence of people like this.
Sport and beer - killer combination.
Misshapen croissants, and other incidents of wonkiness.
… like this one. Ah, the joys of perspective.
The thoughtfulness of others.
Bookshops.
Dear and Barmy friends
Shells: among the finest of Nature’s marvels…
… Along with this little jumping critter.
Room with a View
