When we grow young
we find that on upside
to getting wrinkles
is our happiness.
We try no more
to turn the ocean tide —
we ride with it
and readily confess
that there’s one thing
we ever understood,
one truth, yours for the taking:
life is good.
© 2014 Sasha A. Palmer
Image: © 2018 Nino Chakvetadze, reproduced with permission.
Sorry for the image of cupcakes in case you’ve given up sweets for Lent. Hang in there, and have a beautiful and rich Lenten Season.
- Is fifteen a big number? How about forty three? Or thirty six? How does one measure wealth? Or success?
Johannes Vermeer had fifteen children. He was forty three years old when he died. He produced relatively few paintings: some sources say thirty four, some — thirty six.
One of the greatest painters of the Dutch Golden Age passed away in poverty leaving his family to deal with debts. In his work he frequently used very expensive pigments.
No one paints light like Johannes Vermeer.
If you want more, Essential Vermeer has pretty much got it all.
And if you’re still looking for poetic inspiration, here’s a magic word for you: grisaille. Isn’t it lovely?
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Image: The Milkmaid, Johannes Vermeer, c. 1660, Public Domain
A photograph of Jane Morris by John Robert Parsons, 1868 (via The Paris Review)
“It is likely that no one had ever said she was beautiful … and may indeed have described her as plain or even ugly.”
— Janey’s biographer Jan Marsh
Read about the Pre-Raphaelite muse née Jane Burden, Jane Morris, Janey.
A 1955 oil painting by Dr. Seuss. Photo: The Art of Dr Seuss and Liss Gallery, via the Guardian
From here on earth, from my small place,
I ask of You way out in space:
Please tell all men in every land
what You and I both understand.
Please tell all men that peace is good.
That’s all that need be understood
in every world in Your great sky.
We understand. Both You and I.
“While working, I hold my creation in my fingers. Even one’s heartbeat disturbs such minute work, so particularly delicate work has to be done between heartbeats,”
— Vladimir Aniskin, microminiaturist from Russia, creator of (quite possibly) the world’s tiniest book.
When in the night I lay awake
The moon became a silver lake
Across it swam a single swan
That turned into a white snowflake
It grew until the lake was gone
Beneath the crystals, clear as drawn
Then burst into a million stars
That fell until the break of dawn
Like rays of light through prison bars
Like gems adorning crowns of tsars
They fell as I succumbed to sleep
Like healing drops upon fresh scars
Live for the Love of it,
Sasha A. Palmer (aka Happy)
image credit: Starlight, snowflake photo by Alexey Kljatov
“I paint, write, and make music, but these are mundane descriptions. We are all creative but some of us have it in our nature, or necessity, to maintain this and give whatever art form we choose preeminence in our lives. I believe that all these attributes are non-personal and from God: any minor investigation into reality will reveal that we create nothing within the universe; we merely manifest within it. What we are is not very clear to us.”
— Billy Childish