My Vicky Life

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Posts tagged with "arts and letters"

Just when you despair that certain people may not appreciate the voluptuous, they go and surprise you.
(Source: http://instagram.com/p/ZgKgp-E76O)

Just when you despair that certain people may not appreciate the voluptuous, they go and surprise you.

(Source: http://instagram.com/p/ZgKgp-E76O)

Vitamin Sea by Brandon Boyd ; The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Ooh, this picture reminds me of one of my favorite paintings, Dog Buried in Sand by Francisco Goya. Both will make you crazy if you stare at them too long.

youbetterthinkfast:

Brandon Boyd

Ooh, this picture reminds me of one of my favorite paintings, Dog Buried in Sand by Francisco Goya. Both will make you crazy if you stare at them too long.

youbetterthinkfast:

Brandon Boyd

Apr 8

Since the subject of beauty (and the perception of it) has popped up on my blog again, and also since it’s National Poetry Month, I give you one of my favorite poems, My Mistress’ Eyes by William Shakespeare. First, though, you might want to check out a lyrical little number called There is a Garden in Her Face. It was written by one of Shakespeare’s contemporaries, Thomas Campion, who gushes on about his lady’s rosy cheeks, pearly white teeth, and cherry red lips. To which Shakespeare responds, “Well, my girlfriend isn’t much to look at, but I’m nuts about her anyway.” What a guy.

There Is A Garden In Her Face
by Thomas Campion (1567-1620)

There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heav’nly paradise is that place
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
      There cherries grow which none may buy,
      Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill’d with snow;
      Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
      Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand,
Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
      Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
      Till “Cherry ripe” themselves do cry.

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)
by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
      And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
      As any she belied with false compare.

It has arrived. Now to spend another shitload of money to have it framed.

It has arrived. Now to spend another shitload of money to have it framed.

Okay, one more: The History of [Western] Music in Seven Minutes, by Spanish artist Pablo Morales de los Rios. You don’t have to understand Spanish to get it.

(Source: openculture.com)

Since it seems to be cool video day on my blog, here’s one more, No Corras Tanto, by Madrid-based artist Cesar Díaz Meléndez. It took him three months to make this amazing sand animation video using no special effects - just a light table, a camera, and sand. The music was written and performed by his own band, El Combolinga.

Feb 6

A student in the library just asked me for this poem. I thought I’d post it, because it makes me think of Tumblr.

Spellbound

by Emily Brontë

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

…and while we’re on the subject of poetry, James Franco, and Allen Ginsberg, here’s some more of the real thing.

Now THIS an an inauguration poem: Maya Angelou at President Clinton’s first go-round.

Russian Hamlet,

the last ballet I saw that I actually enjoyed, because it wasn’t the same old Balanchine, Tharp, Taylor, and Robbins that I don’t care if I never see again as long as I live. It’s not exactly Shakespeare’s version, but the title character definitely has mommy issues, his girlfriend dies under odd circumstances, his father’s ghost shows up, the play’s the thing, and everybody goes off the deep end. The choreographer is Boris Eifman, described in the Wikipedia as being “known for his dark portrayals of anguished sexuality and extreme psychological states.” Considering what I blogged about earlier this evening, and considering my habit (or defense mechanism, you might call it) of trying to associate my angst-du-jour with art, it’s small wonder that this work suddenly crossed my mind after so many years. Nice to find the whole thing online.

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Dec 8
Francisco Goya - Dog Buried in Sand

Francisco Goya - Dog Buried in Sand

Just watched part of this 16th century Chinese opera being livestreamed from the Metropolitan Museum website. Not my usual cup of tea these days, but really cool. 

Just watched part of this 16th century Chinese opera being livestreamed from the Metropolitan Museum website. Not my usual cup of tea these days, but really cool. 

"A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou…”
—Omar Khayyám
(illustration by Edmund Dulac)

"A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou…”

—Omar Khayyám

(illustration by Edmund Dulac)

Oct 4