Bijouterie (Genève)

Henri Vever
Belt Buckle
1897
gold (partly enameled)
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Gilbert Albert
Bracelet
ca. 1970
gold, turquoises, pearls
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Roman Empire
Theatrical Scene from Menander
140-80 BC
chalcedony cameo
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Etruscan Culture
Athena Promachos
550-525 BC
sardonyx scarab recut as intaglio
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Anonymous Swiss Jeweler
Bracelet
(concealing painted miniature)
ca. 1830
enameled gold, opals, rubies, emeralds, pearls
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Jean-François Bautte
Brooch
ca. 1825
enameled gold, turquoises, rose topazes
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Jean-François Bautte
Ear Pendants
ca. 1825
enameled gold, turquoises, rose topazes
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Anonymous French Jeweler
Pocket Watch
ca. 1825
gold, paved with graduated pearls
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Suzanne Belperron
Ear Clips
1967
gold, sapphires, emeralds and glass
(made in Paris using vintage gems)
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Louis Pautex-Meilland
Peach Brooch
ca. 1880-1900
enamel on copper
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Anonymous Swiss Jeweler
Brooch
ca. 1846
enameled gold, diamonds, ruby
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Anonymous Swiss Jeweler
Bracelet
ca. 1846
enameled gold, diamonds, ruby
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Marcel Constant Bastard
Finger-Ring as Bee with Watch
ca. 1930
enameled gold, diamonds, sapphires
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

René Lalique
Pendant - Allegory of Autumn
ca. 1898-1900
enameled gold
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Marie-Mathilde Bedot
Necklace
ca. 1900
shell cameo and turquoises set in silver
Musées d'Art et d'Histoire, Genève

Henri Vever
Paper-Folder - Moth
1900
gold, silver, bronze
Musées d'Art et d'Histoir, -Genève

After the herald had said this, the Athenians sent a herald of their own to the Boeotians, denying that either they had done any wrong to the holy place already or would willingly do any hurt to it hereafter; for neither did they at first enter into it to such intent, but to requite the greater injuries which had been done unto them; as for the law which the Grecians have, it is no other but that they which have the dominion of any territory, great or small, have ever the temples also, and besides the accustomed rites, may superinduce what other they can: for also the Boeotians, and most men else, all that having driven out another nation possess their territory, did at first invade the temples of others and make them their own; that therefore, if they could win from them more of their land, they would keep it, and for the part they were now in, they were in it with a good will and would not out of it, as being their own; that for the water, they meddled with it upon necessity; which was not to be ascribed to insolence, but to this, that fighting against the Boeotians that had invaded their territory first, they were forced to use it; for whatsoever is forced by war or danger hath in reason a kind of pardon even with the god himself; for the altars, in cases of involuntary offences, are a refuge, and they are said to violate laws that are evil without constraint, not they that are a little bold upon occasion of distress; that the Boeotians themselves, who require restitution of the holy places for a redemption of the dead, are more irreligious by far than they, who, rather than let their temples go, are content to go without that which were fit for them to receive; and they bade him say plainly that they would not depart out of the Boeotian territory, for that they were not now in it, but in a territory which they had made their own, by the sword; and nevertheless, required truce, according to the ordinance of the country, for the fetching away of the dead.

To this the Boeotians answered that if the dead were in Boeotia, they should quit the ground and take with them whatsoever was theirs; but if the dead were in their own territory, the Athenians themselves knew best what to do.

– from The Peloponnesian War as written by Thucydides (5th century BC) and translated by Thomas Hobbes (1628) and edited by David Grene (1959)

Il Penseroso - I

Jan Baptist Barbé
St John Berchmans
ca. 1625
etching
Staatliche Graphische Sammlung, Munich

Anonymous Artist
Gentleman admiring a Japanese Woodcut
ca. 1900
oil on canvas
Clemens-Sels Museum, Neuss, Germany

Henri de Braekeleer
The Picture Lover
ca. 1884
oil on canvas
Royal Museum of Fine Arts, Antwerp

Philipp Bender
Painting Galleries at Darmstadt Castle
ca. 1825-30
oil on canvas
Hessisches Landesmuseum, Darmstadt

Crispin Gurholt
Voyage Pittoresque
2007
C-print
Nordnorsk Kunstmuseum, Tromsø

Crispin Gurholt
Voyage Pittoresque - Live Photo #13
2007
C-print
Nordnorsk Kunstmuseum, Tromsø

Juan Muñoz
Untitled
2000
polyester resin figure with mirror
Musée de Grenoble

Jost Amman
Portrait of artist Wenzel Jamnitzer at work
ca. 1580
etching
Staatliche Graphische Sammlung, Munich

Albrecht Dürer
Drawing a Model in Perspective
1525
woodcut
Graphische Sammlung Albertina, Vienna

Jan Hulswit
Self Portrait working in the Studio
ca. 1795
drawing
Städel Museum, Frankfurt

Georg Friedrich Kersting
Interior with Woman Embroidering
1817
oil on canvas
National Museum, Warsaw

Jakob Alt
The Artist's Studio
1836
watercolor on paper
Graphische Sammlung Albertina, Vienna

Félix Buhot
Corner of the Studio
ca. 1886-89
oil on panel
Musée Thomas-Henry, Cherbourg

Pietro Testa
Socrates with his Followers
1648
engraving
Graphische Sammlung, ETH Zürich

Master of 1515
Hercules and the Philosopher
ca. 1515-20
drypoint
Graphische Sammlung Albertina, Vienna

Åsa Herrgård
Memories of Scents
2019
jesmonite and plaster
Moderna Museet, Stockholm

I saw Alexis walking in the road at noon-tide, at the season when the summer was just being shorn of the tresses of her fruits; and double rays burnt me, the rays of love from the boy's eyes and others from the sun.  The sun's night laid to rest again, but love's were kindled more in my dreams by the phantom of beauty.  So sleep, who releases others from toil, brought pain to me, imaging in my soul a loveliness which is living fire. 

In summer, when I was athirst, I kissed the tender-fleshed boy and said, when I was free of my parching thirst, "Father Zeus, dost thou drink the nectareous kiss of Ganymede, and is this the wine he tenders to thy lips?" For now that I have kissed Antiochus, fairest of our youth, I have drunk the sweet honey of the soul. 

Pain has begun to touch my heart, for hot Love, as he strayed, scratched it with the tip of his nails, and, smiling, said, "Again, O unhappy lover, thou shalt have the sweet wound, burnt by biting honey." Since when, seeing among the youths the fresh sapling Diophantus, I can neither fly nor abide. 

O sore-afflicted soul, now thou burnest in the fire and now thou revivest, recovering thy breath.  Why dost thou weep?  When thou didst nurse merciless Love in thy bosom knewest thou not that he was being nursed for thy bane?  Didst thou not know it?  Now learn to know the pay of thy good nursing, receiving from him fire and cold snow therewith.  Thyself thou hast chosen this; bear the pain.  Thou sufferest the due guerdon of what thou hast done, burnt by his boiling honey.  

Did I not cry it to thee, my soul, "By Cypris, thou wilt be taken, O thou love-lorn, that fliest again and again to the limed bough"?  Did I not cry it?  And the snare has caught thee.  Why dost thou struggle vainly in thy bonds?  Love himself hath bound thy wings and set thee on the fire, and sprays thee with scents when thou faintest, and gives thee when thou art athirst hot tears to drink.

Our guest has a wound and we knew it not.  Sawest thou not with what pain he heaved his breath up from his chest when he drink the third cup?  And all the roses, casting their petals, fell on the ground from the man's wreaths.  There is something burns him fiercely; by the gods I guess not at random, but a thief myself, I know a thief's footprints. 

– from Book XII (Strato's Musa Puerilis) in the Greek Anthology, translated and edited by W.R. Paton (1917)

Lettered

Joseph J. Gould
Lippincott's - May
1896
lithograph (poster)
Library of Congress, Washington DC

Eric Gill
Society of Wood Engravers
1920
color woodblock print
British Museum

F. Bernard Clarke
London County Council
A.R.P. - A.F.S.
1939
lithograph (poster)
National Museum of American History,
Washington DC

Dat Keely
A.R.P. - Women Wanted
1939
lithograph (poster)
National Museum of American History,
Washington DC

Ben Shahn
Break Reaction's Grip
1946
lithograph (poster)
Smithsonian American Art Museum,
Washington DC

Elaine Lustig Cohen
The Strange Islands - poems by Thomas Merton
1957
lithograph
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

Tomoko Miho
Broadway
1968
offset-lithograph
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

Elaine Lustig Cohen
Russian Triquarterly
1975-
lithograph
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

Anonymous American Designer
Shopping Bag from Fiorucci, New York
ca. 1980
offset-print on paper bag
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

Anonymous French Designer
Shopping Bag from Fauchon, Paris
ca. 1985
offset-print on paper bag
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

Anonymous Austrian Designer
Shopping Bag from the Albertina, Vienna
1986
offset-print on paper bag
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

Philippe Apeloig
Chicago, Naissance d'une Métropole - Musée d'Orsay
1987
screenprint (exhibition poster)
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

Michael Schirmer
Alles Falsch - Museum für Gestaltung, Zürich
ca. 1989
screenprint (exhibition poster)
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

Anonymous American Designer
Shopping Bag from Chiasso, Chicago
ca. 1990
offset-print on paper bag
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

Milton Glaser
Olivetti Quaderno
1993
offset-lithograph (advertising poster)
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

William Eggleston
Untitled (Cushion, Purple Wall, Graffiti, Memphis)
2007
inkjet print
Whitney Museum of American Art, New York

Philippe Apeloig
Vivo in Typo
Affiches et Alphabets Animés
2008
screenprint (exhibition poster)
Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum

13 June 1947

    Last night I had a rather wonderful dream.  I was in a lofty dimly lighted old hospital ward, nurses moved about silently and rapidly, sometimes murmuring a word to a patient here and there.

    Beside my own bed stood a Roman Catholic priest, and behind him were two other cloudy people, perhaps an attendant priest and a staff nurse or matron.  He was a little ferrety man with large rimless glasses and a rapt, tortured expression.

    He seemed to bless me with embarrassing depth of feeling, then, still murmuring something, he put his first and second fingers into my mouth and held the points of them against the roof of my mouth very delicately.  He was looking up to heaven murmuring faster now.  His pale face was beginning to be dewed with sweat.

    Gradually a most delicious tingling began to spread through all my body from the point in my mouth which the priest's fingers touched.  In spite of this surging pleasure, I was dimly ashamed of being the priest's patient or victim.  I felt that he was a man I could not help despising a little.  I was in a false position.  He must feel that.  I loved him for the miracle he was performing, whereas I really felt, deep down, only a pale disgust for him and the thing he was doing to me.

    After some moments of this uneasy ecstasy, the priest lifted his two fingers to Heaven, then blessed me and left.  The nice staff nurse or sister at once came up to me and said, "You are healed, isn't it wonderful! You are healed!"

    I could hardly believe it, and kept saying, "Healed for the moment, healed for the moment," to myself.  Indeed my whole attitude in the high hospital ward was a grudging and humiliated one; yet I had affection for the nice sister and even felt something like respect for the priest, in spite of my distaste or rather through it. 

    Now that I was healed, I must have wanted to get away at once from all signs of pain and illness; for I next found myself in the wings of a vast theatre.  I had run there deliriously expecting to find all the friends I did.  Valerie White (a girl I had known at the art school, who has since become quite a well-known actress) was there.  I had never particularly cared for her, but now I was polite and kind and happy and she was too.

    I flitted from group to group of gay friendly people.  I explored all the strange heights and depths behind a stage.  I danced most of the way, spinning, tumbling, kicking, to exercise my new-found joy in movement to the full.  I was singing too, letting the wild excitement ripple off my tongue.

    Then just as I was in a low, wide corridor hung with choking draperies of cotton, a sort of dust-sheet decoration, grim and hopeless, just as I was beginning to feel tired and very thirsty, someone appeared dressed as Hamlet in tight black velvet.  He carried a wide stumpy crystal goblet frosted with cold.  He was rather short, or perhaps the wide shoulders made him look stocky.  His face was squarish – lips, nose, eyes, the cut of his dark hair.  Although I have never seen anyone like him in real life, he was immediately, I knew, my best friend.  He knew it too, and offered me the goblet with a gay flourishing gesture, as if he were laughing at himself.

    I took it in both hands and drank the inky purple liquid; it was loganberry juice – something I have not had since I was seventeen.  It seemed that I could never have enough of the ice-cold deliciousness.  I drank and drank and looked over the rim of the goblet at My Best Friend.  Why did he seem to wear this invisible label?  He was smiling at me, laughing with me; we seemed in complete accord, yet I could tell at a glance that we were very different types of people.  This seemed to make his graciousness all the more precious.  I found myself thinking wildly of ways in which I could be of service to him.  I stretched out my hand to him, he stretched out his hand to me; we were about to do some stamping, strutting, military dance, when he dropped his stage bravado, ran up to me and urged me to leave, in a low serious voice that cut across all our former gaiety.

    The dream faded as we both fled on tiptoe, our fingers to our lips.  But in spite of this ballet-dancer's ending, there was real regret in both of us.  We seemed to be acting this stealth and anxiety to cover up the fact that we must part at the stage door.

– from The Journals of Denton Welch (who was born in 1915, gravely injured in 1935, then wrote the journals between 1942 and his early death in 1948), edited by Michael De-la-Noy (1984)

Anonymous Italian Art in Germany

Anonymous Italian Artist after Guido Reni
Sleeping Venus
18th century
pastel on paper
Städel Museum, Frankfurt

Anonymous Italian Artist
Virgin and Child with Angel and young St John the Baptist
ca. 1500
marble relief
Bode Museum, Berlin

Anonymous Italian Artist
Female Allegorical Figure
15th century
drawing
Städel Museum, Frankfurt

Anonymous Venetian Artist
Portrait of a Boy
16th century
drawing
Städel Museum, Frankfurt

Anonymous Italian Artist after Titian
Tree with Goats
ca. 1530
chiaroscuro woodcut
Kupferstichkabinett, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin

Anonymous Florentine Artist
St Elizabeth
ca. 1450-1500
painted terracotta
Bode Museum, Berlin

Anonymous Roman Artist
Frieze of Prisoners and Trophies
16th century
drawing
(after exterior fresco by Polidoro da Caravaggio)
Kupferstichkabinett, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Dresden

Anonymous Roman Artist
Abduction of the Sabine Women
17th century
drawing
(after exterior fresco by Polidoro da Caravaggio)
Kupferstichkabinett, Staatliche Kunstsammlungen, Dresden

Anonymous Venetian Artist
Bust of Emperor Vitellius
17th century
white and colored marbles
(imitation of antique bust)
Museumslandschaft Hessen Kassel

Anonymous Italian Artist
Antique Relief of Wounded Soldier
1767
etching
(illustration to published edition of Winckelmann)
Hamburger Kunsthalle

Anonymous Venetian Artist
Portrait of Doge Jacopo Tiepolo (died 1249)
ca. 1575
woodcut and letterpress (book illustration)
Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolfenbüttel

Anonymous Italian Artist
Study of Antique Torso
18th century
drawing
Hamburger Kunsthalle

Anonymous Italian Artist after Filippino Lippi
Seated Youth
16th century
drawing
Städel Museum, Frankfurt

Anonymous Italian Artist after Raphael
Caryatids
16th century
drawing
Städel Museum, Frankfurt

Anonymous Florentine Artist
Figure Study
ca. 1600-1625
drawing
Hamburger Kunsthalle

Anonymous Italian Artist
Representation of Lymph Vessels
1627
chiaroscuro woodcut
Herzog August Bibliothek, Wolfenbüttel

Tell, stranger, if ever thou dost come to Phthia, the land of vines, and to the ancient city of Thaumacia that, mounting once through the lonely woodland of Malea, thou didst see this tomb of Derxias the son of Lampo, whom once, as he hastened on his way to glorious Sparta, the bandits slew by treachery and not in open fight.

Aristo had his sling, a weapon procuring him a scanty living, with which he was wont to shoot the winged geese, stealing softly upon them so as to  elude them as they fed with sidelong-glancing eyes. Now he is in Hades and the sling noiseless and idle with no hand to whirl it, and the game fly over his tomb. 

Letoeus and Paulus, being two brothers, were united in life, and united in the predestined hour of their death, they lie by the Bosporus clothed in one shroud of dust. For they could not live apart from each other, but ran together to Persephone. Hail, sweet pair, ever of one mind; on your tomb should stand an altar of Concord.

Looking at my husband, as my life was ebbing away, I praised the infernal gods, and those of wedlock, the former because I left my husband alive, the latter that he was so good a husband. But may their father live to bring up our children.

Hades spoiled the ripe fruit of my youth and the stone hid me in this ancestral tomb. My name was Rufinus, the son of Aetherius and I was born of a noble mother, but in vain was I born; for after reaching the perfection of education and youth, I carried, alas! my learning to Hades and my youth to Erebus. Lament long, O traveler, when thou readest these lines, for without doubt thou art either the father or the son of living men. 

Thou art bound in brazen silence, Chryseomallus, and no longer dost thou figure to us the men of old time in dumb show.* Now, most gifted man, is thy silence, in which we once took delight, grievous to us. 

– from Book VI (Sepulchral Epigrams) of the Greek Anthology, translated and edited by W.R. Paton (1917)

*he was a mime