Sunday, May 12, 2024

Static Faces (Painted)

Sofonisba Anguissola
Portrait of the Artist's Sister, Minerva
ca. 1564
oil on canvas
Milwaukee Art Museum

George Frederic Watts
Portrait of Agathonike Ionides
1880
oil on canvas
Victoria & Albert Museum, London

Anonymous Artist working in Britain
Portrait of a Noblewoman
ca. 1550
oil on panel
Minneapolis Institute of Art

attributed to Santi di Tito
Portrait of a Young Man
ca. 1560-75
oil on panel
Chrysler Museum of Art, Norfolk, Virginia

Agostino Carracci
Portrait of a Boy
ca. 1593
oil on canvas
Gemäldegalerie, Dresden

Abraham Ragueneau
Portrait of a Man
1663
oil on canvas
Victoria & Albert Museum, London

Rembrandt
Woman holding a Pink
1656
oil on canvas
National Gallery of Art, Washington DC

Philippe de Champaigne
Marie-Madeleine de Vignerod, duchesse d'Aiguillon
(niece of Cardinal Richelieu)
ca. 1650
oil on canvas
Collection of Franco Maria Ricci, Fontanellato

Aelbert Cuyp
Portrait of Anna Blocken
1649
oil on panel
Minneapolis Institute of Art

Antonis Mor
Portrait of a Gentleman
1569
oil on canvas
National Gallery of Art, Washington DC

Henry Raeburn
Portrait of Miss Eleanor Urquhart
ca. 1793
oil on canvas
National Gallery of Art, Washington DC

Thomas Gainsborough
Portrait of Frances Susanna, Lady de Dunstanville
ca. 1786
oil on canvas
National Gallery of Art, Washington DC

Frans Hals
Portrait of a Man
ca. 1648-50
oil on canvas
National Gallery of Art, Washington DC

Christen Købke
Portrait of Cecilia Margaret Købke, the Artist's Mother
1829
oil on canvas
Scottish National Gallery, Edinburgh

Christian Krohg
Portrait of Lucy Parr Egeberg
1876
oil on canvas
National Gallery of Norway, Oslo

René Magritte
The Spirit of Geometry
1937
gouache on paper
Tate Gallery

Prometheus

Summer thunder darkens, and its climbing
     Cumulae, disowning our scale in the zenith,
Electrify this music: the evening is falling apart.
     Castles-in-air; on earth: green, livid fire.
The radio simmers with static to the strains
     Of this mock last-day of nature and of art.

We have lived through apocalypse too long:
     Scriabin's dinosaurs! Trombones for the transformation
That arrived by train at the Finland Station,
     To bury its hatchet after thirty years in the brain
Of Trotsky. Alexander Nikolayevitch, the events
     Were less merciful than your mob of instruments.

Too many drowning voices cram this waveband.
     I set Lenin's face by yours –
Yours, the fanatic ego of eccentricity against
     The systematic son of a schools inspector
Tyutchev on desk – for the strong man reads
     Poets as the antisemite pleads: 'A Jew was my friend.'

Cymballed firesweeps. Prometheus came down
     In more than orchestral flame and Kérensky fled 
Before it. The babel of continents gnaws now
     And tears at the silk of those harmonies that seemed
So dangerous once. You dreamed an end
     Where the rose of the world would out like a close in music. 

Population drags the partitions down
     And we are a single town of warring suburbs:
I cannot hear such music for its consequence:
     Each sense was to have been reborn
Out of a storm of perfumes and light
     To a white world, an in-the-beginning.

In the beginning, the strong man reigns:
     Trotsky, was it not then you brought yourself
To judgment and to execution, when you forgot
     Where terror rules, justice turns arbitrary?
Chromatic Prometheus, myth of fire,
     It is history topples you in the zenith.

Blok, too, wrote The Scythians
     Who should have known: he who howls
With the whirlwind, with the whirlwind goes down.
     In this, was Lenin guiltier than you
When, out of a merciless patience grew
     The daily prose such poetry prepares for?

Scriabin, Blok, men of extremes,
     History treads out the music of your dreams
Through blood, and cannot close like this
     In the perfection of anabasis. It stops. The trees
Continue raining though the rain has ceased
     In a cooled world of incessant codas:

Hard edges of the houses press
     On the after-music senses, and refuse to burn,
Where an ice-cream van circulates the estate
     Playing Greensleeves, and at the city's
Stale new frontier even ugliness
     Rules with the cruel mercies of solidities. 

– Charles Tomlinson (1968)