Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Fritz Bleyl

Ruhender Akt

Poster by Fritz Bleyl to promote the first Die Brücke show in 1906. The police banned it!

Theodore Gericault - Evening- Landscape with an Aquaduct (1818)

This work is one in a projected set of four monumental landscapes representing the times of day. Gericault completed only three: Morning: Landscape with Fishermen (Alte Pinakothek, Munich), Noon: Landscape with a Roman Tomb (Musée du Petit Palais, Paris), and the present work. Painted in Paris during the summer of 1818, the landscapes were conceived as decor, either to be exhibited as such at the Salon or to be placed in a specific interior. Nothing is known about a commission; nevertheless, extant receipts for the delivery of the canvases to Gericault's studio enable the works to be dated with precision.

The landscapes fuse souvenirs of ruins in the Italian countryside, which Gericault had visited in 1817 with the stormy skies and turbulent moods characteristic of the emerging aesthetic of Romanticism and the Anglo-French concept of the Sublime. Gericault painted these landscapes at a moment of personal turmoil: his uncle's second wife was about to give birth to a child whom Gericault had fathered. This event interrupted his work on the "Times of Day," and explains why only three of the four landscapes were realized.

Source: Théodore Gericault: Evening: Landscape with an Aqueduct (1989.183) | Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History | The Metropolitan Museum of Art


Friday, 27 August 2010

Umberto Boccioni

Self-Portrait (1905)

Simultaneous Visions

Rissa in Galleria/Fight in the Galleria

Thursday, 26 August 2010

Wednesday, 25 August 2010

Carlo Carrà - The Funeral of the Anarchist Galli

The subject of the work is the funeral of Italian anarchist Angelo Galli, killed by police during a general strike in 1904. The Italian State feared that the funeral would become a de facto political demonstration and refused the mourning anarchists entrance into the cemetery itself. When anarchists resisted, the police responded with force and a violent scuffle ensued.

Carlo Carrà was present. His work embodies the tension and chaos of the scene: the movement of the bodies, the clashing of anarchists and police, the black flags flying in the air. He reflects in a later memoir:

I saw before me the bier, covered with red carnations, wavering dangerously on the shoulders of the pallbearers. I saw the horses becoming restive, and clubs and lances clashing, so that it seemed to me that at any moment the corpse would fall to the ground and be trampled by the horses…

Tuesday, 24 August 2010

Marcel Duchamp - The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even

What we were interested in at the time was the fourth dimension. Simply, I thought of the idea of a projection, of an invisible fourth dimension, something you couldn't see with your eyes.

Philadelphia Museum of Art: Handbook of the Collections
Surely one of the most enigmatic works of art in any museum, The Large Glass dominates a gallery devoted to Marcel Duchamp's work from the exact location in which he placed it in 1954. Painstakingly executed on two planes of glass with unconventional materials such as lead foil, fuse wire, and dust, the appearance of the Glass is the result of an extraordinary combination of chance procedures, carefully plotted perspective studies, and laborious craftsmanship. As for its metaphysical aspect, Duchamp's voluminous preparatory notes, published in 1934, reveal that his "hilarious picture" is intended to diagram the erratic progress of an encounter between the "Bride," in the upper panel, and her nine "Bachelors" gathered timidly below amidst a wealth of mysterious mechanical apparatus. Exhibited only once (in 1926 at the Brooklyn Museum) before it was accidentally broken and laboriously repaired by the artist the Glass joined the Museum's collection in 1953 and has gradually become the subject of a vast scholarly literature and the object of pilgrimages for countless visitors drawn to its witty, intelligent, and vastly liberating redefinition of what a work of art can be. Anne d'Harnoncourt, from Philadelphia Museum of Art: Handbook of the Collections (1995), p. 316.


Monday, 23 August 2010

Tsuguharu Foujita - The Cafe

Maurice Brianchon

Brianchon was one of the best known painters of his generation in France. Winner of the Prix Blumenthal in 1924, he was one of the most influential masters at the Ecole des Beaux Arts and remains the only real successor in France to the tradition and intimacy of Bonnard and Vuillard.Theatre scenes, still lifes, portraits and compositions form an ensemble varied in subject but with a common technique. No surface is completely flat or inert, no color smooth.

Saint Jean de Luz La Plage

Nu Assis

Le Bief sur La Dronne en Dordogne

Nature morte aux poires

Friday, 20 August 2010

Raoul Dufy

What I wish to show when I paint is the way I see things with my eyes and in my heart.

Le Tour Eiffel

Vieilles maisons sur le bassin de Honfleur, 1906



Interior with Open Window

Thursday, 19 August 2010

Jean Hans Arp

Since the time of the cavemen, man has glorified himself, has made himself divine, and his monstrous vanity has caused human catastrophe. Art has collaborated in this false development. I find this concept of art which has sustained man’s vanity to be loathsome. - Jean Arp

Non Loin au Soleil de la Lune et des Etoiles (translates to Not far from the Sun, Moon and Stars)




kaspar is dead by Jean Arp

alas our good kaspar is dead.
who will bury a burning flag in the wings of the clouds who will pull
black wool over our eyes day by day.
who will turn the coffee mills in the primal barrel.
who will lure the idyllic roe from his petrified paperbag.
who will sneeze oceanliners unbrellas windudders beekeepers spindles
of ozone who will pick clean the pyramids' bones.
alas alas alas our good kaspar is dead. holy saint bong kaspar is dead.
the clappers raise heart-rending echoes of sorrow in the barns of the bells
when we murmur his name. therefore i will only sigh out his surname
kaspar kaspar kaspar.
why hast thou forsaken us. in what shape has thy lovely great soul taken
flight. hast thou changed to a star or a chain made of water in a tropical
whirlwind or a teat of black light or a transparent brick in a drum that
howls for its craggy existence.
now the soles of our feet and the crowns of our heads have dried up and
the fairies are lying half-charred on the funeral piles.
now the black bowling alleys thunder in back of the sun and no one is
setting a compass or spinning the wheelbarrow's wheels.
who will eat with the phosphorized rat on the lonely barefooted table.
who will chase the siroccoco devil that's trying to lead off our horses.
who will decipher the monograms scratched on the stars.
his bust shall adorn the mantels of people ennobled by truth through it
leaves but small comfort or snuff for his death's head.

Wednesday, 18 August 2010

Paul Delvaux - Pygmalion

In Ovid's narrative, Pygmalion was a Cypriot sculptor who carved a woman out of ivory. According to Ovid, after seeing the Propoetides prostituting themselves, he was 'not interested in women', but his statue was so fair and realistic that he fell in love with it. In the vertex, Venus (Aphrodite)'s festival day came. For the festival, Pygmalion made offerings to Venus and made a wish. "I sincerely wished the ivory sculpture will be changed to a real woman." However, he couldn’t bring himself to express it. When he returned home, Cupid sent by Venus kissed the ivory sculpture on the hand. At that time, it was changed to a beautiful woman. A ring was put on Galatea's finger. It was Cupid’s ring which made love achieved. Venus granted his wish.

The Story of Pygmalion and the Statue

Pygmalion loathing their lascivious life,
Abhorr'd all womankind, but most a wife:
So single chose to live, and shunn'd to wed,
Well pleas'd to want a consort of his bed.
Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill,
In sculpture exercis'd his happy skill;
And carv'd in iv'ry such a maid, so fair,
As Nature could not with his art compare,
Were she to work; but in her own defence
Must take her pattern here, and copy hence.
Pleas'd with his idol, he commends, admires,
Adores; and last, the thing ador'd, desires.
A very virgin in her face was seen,
And had she mov'd, a living maid had been:
One wou'd have thought she cou'd have stirr'd, but strove
With modesty, and was asham'd to move.
Art hid with art, so well perform'd the cheat,
It caught the carver with his own deceit:
He knows 'tis madness, yet he must adore,
And still the more he knows it, loves the more:
The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,
Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.
Fir'd with this thought, at once he strain'd the breast,
And on the lips a burning kiss impress'd.
'Tis true, the harden'd breast resists the gripe,
And the cold lips return a kiss unripe:
But when, retiring back, he look'd again,
To think it iv'ry, was a thought too mean:
So wou'd believe she kiss'd, and courting more,
Again embrac'd her naked body o'er;
And straining hard the statue, was afraid
His hands had made a dint, and hurt his maid:
Explor'd her limb by limb, and fear'd to find
So rude a gripe had left a livid mark behind:
With flatt'ry now he seeks her mind to move,
And now with gifts (the pow'rful bribes of love),
He furnishes her closet first; and fills
The crowded shelves with rarities of shells;
Adds orient pearls, which from the conchs he drew,
And all the sparkling stones of various hue:
And parrots, imitating human tongue,
And singing-birds in silver cages hung:
And ev'ry fragrant flow'r, and od'rous green,
Were sorted well, with lumps of amber laid between:
Rich fashionable robes her person deck,
Pendants her ears, and pearls adorn her neck:
Her taper'd fingers too with rings are grac'd,
And an embroider'd zone surrounds her slender waste.
Thus like a queen array'd, so richly dress'd,
Beauteous she shew'd, but naked shew'd the best.
Then, from the floor, he rais'd a royal bed,
With cov'rings of Sydonian purple spread:
The solemn rites perform'd, he calls her bride,
With blandishments invites her to his side;
And as she were with vital sense possess'd,
Her head did on a plumy pillow rest.

more from Delvaux...


Tuesday, 17 August 2010

Sexbeat London

SEXBEAT began in 2007 as a monthly rock n roll happening in a dingy East End pub with bad equipment and far worse toilets. Over the last few years it has mutated and spawned a party / promoter / diy label that has become an underground haven for London’s dissatisfied youth. As well as releasing 7″s, cassettes, fanzines and t shirts we have worked with Andrew WK, Crocodiles, Lovvers, Male Bonding, Fucked Up, Vivian Girls, Ariel Pink, Danananaykroyd, Rolo Tomassi and Monotonix to name a few. Expect fun, fist fights and partying hard. We are happy and privileged to be part of an organic scene of DIY promoters, labels, DJs, bands, artists and friends intent on creating their own society and culture of events, artifacts and like minded individuals

Check it...


Paul Cezanne - Apples, Peaches, Pears & Grapes

Frantisek Kupka

The creative ability of an artist is manifested only if he succeeds in transforming the natural phenomena into 'another reality.' This part of the creative process as an independent element, if conscious and developed, hints at the possibility of creating a painting. (Frantisek Kupka)

Plans par Couleurs (1910-11)

Large Nude (1909)

The Yellow Scale (1907)

Mme Kupka Among Verticals (1910-11)

Path of Silence (1903)

Monday, 16 August 2010

Grant Wood - The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere

The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Written April 19, 1860; first published in 1863 as part of "Tales of a Wayside Inn"
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;=
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Charles Demuth

“America doesn’t really care – still, if one is really an artist and at the same time an American, just this not caring, even though it drives one mad, can be artistic material.”

My Egypt

Buildings in Lancaster

After Sir Christopher Wren

Incense of a New Church

Pierre Bonnard

Le Cabinet de Toilette


View of Cannet

(can't find title)

The Dining Room in the Country

Thursday, 12 August 2010

Orthon Friesz

"He boasted of having been one of the first to kill Fauvism. He did not realise at the time that it was his own art that he had destroyed" Dictionary of Modern Painting.

Portrait of Fernand Fleuret (1907)

La Ciotat

Roofs and Cathedral in Rouen (1908)

Wednesday, 11 August 2010

Albert Pinkham Ryder - The Flying Dutchman

Posted this below but the detail is amazing so thought i'd do it again but bigger. it'll click through massive too. Not entirely sure which is the correct colour of it, this one or the post below.

here's a detail...

Albert Pinkham Ryder

Toilers of the Sea

Moonlight Marine

Flying Dutchman

Boat in Moonlight

Seeküste im Mondlicht

Here's 4 i couldn't find the names of...