“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.” ~ C.S. Lewis
Week #60 / 52 Weeks of Peace (squared) / © Patricia Saxton
I suppose the only thing that could possibly have made this one even more exciting would have been if the movie characters had joined in! (Not to mention a real zebra…) Thank you for this terrific image, and spreading the “52 Weeks of Peace” message farther and wider.
Peace mug overlooking city of Antananarivo, Madagascar
(ps: you can see all “where in the world is peace?” images compiled on our special “where in the world is peace?” page. Totes, mugs and things are available here. Send your own pictures to 52weeksofpeace@gmail.com and we’ll also post them on our FaceBook page. Let’s see where peace goes!)
On this day of love, whether you have a sweetheart or not, it seems a perfect day to share some sophisticated literary candy from a few poets whose words have withstood the tests and tides of time… enjoy them well!
Two Tulips (close-up) / © Patricia Saxton
18th Sonnet, William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43), Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Love’s Philosophy, Percy Bysshe Shelley
The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another’s being mingle–
Why not I with thine?
See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;–
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
and a virtual treat for you... yes you, reading this post : )
All the world mourns Whitney Houston today. But I don’t think we mourn the loss of a “big star”. I think we mourn the loss of something that was great and genuine in our midst.
Part of the tragedy of Whitney Houston’s early death is that we could have easily imagined it working out so much differently. We could imagine her growing older, becoming a grandmother, and a laughing, wise and dignified grande dame to a next generation of talented singers and actresses with dreams as bright as Whitney was in life.
We’re in shock, not just because she was so young, but because it just seems all wrong somehow. As if she took a left turn and got utterly lost, unable to find her way back. And now she’s gone back to the very beginning, by reaching the very end, too soon for the rest of us to fathom.
I’m not so sure it’s anything other than that, although we could philosophize all day that her passing reflects the downside of the spotlight, a fall from grace, the perils of super-stardom… because, there is no doubt, Whitney was a superstar.
She was a bigger-than-life star simply because her gifts were powerful and so completely pure. No bells and whistles, no shock-value accessories, nothing but a voice that was heaven-sent and an ability to make each tone matter, each word touch ground or circle the sun, and the physical poise and beauty to carry it off. It is the rarest of individuals who reach that level of fame and adoration with no embellishment needed. She was not just another starlet ~ she was a class act, with talent as real as it comes.
I sometimes think that certain God-given gifts are born into souls too tender for this world. That very sensitivity allows them to share their gifts purely ~ as surely Whitney Houston did ~ but their humanity, their frailty, takes a beating. A wrong turn too many and in the end, there is mourning.
Rest in Peace, Whitney Houston. The world was a better place for your having been here.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5L_23XC3uCY
Details rule my days, all day, most days. Design details, illustrative details, word details, project details, scheduling, parenting, you name it. (Which is partly why, I suppose, that I love to paint backgrounds with giant sweeping brushstrokes, and why I love big, broad views with never-ending skies.)
When it comes to my art, people often ask “how do you do that shading with a pencil?”, or “how do you create that sense of depth on a 2-dimensional surface?”. Of course I can show them, or I can teach techniques, but the truth is that when you’re in the throes, you’re not really “thinking”, it’s more like feeling your way. (And it should also be said, that one of the key things about details is knowing which ones to leave out.)
In any event, since details play such a big role in my work, I thought it might be interesting to share some “up-close” artwork. Hope you enjoy the closer look!
Detail of "Cairo Market" / Oil on Canvas / © Patricia Saxton
"Cairo Market" / Oil on Canvas / © Patricia Saxton
Detail of "Osprey 1" / Pen & Ink / © Patricia Saxton
"Osprey 1" / Pen and Ink on Paper / © Patricia Saxton
Detail of "Eagle" / Pencil on Paper / © Patricia Saxton
"Eagle" / Pencil on Paper / © Patricia Saxton
Detail of "Storm II" / Oil on Canvas / © Patricia Saxton
"Storm II" / Oil on Canvas / © Patricia Saxton
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Charles Dickens, English novelist (1812 - 1870)
If humans were immortal, Dickens would be 200 years old today. Although, considering the body of work he left behind, appreciated generation after generation, he’s among those who have become as immortal as it gets. I’ll wager that every one of us has experienced at least one (if not a few) of his written achievements, most notably A Tale of Two Cities, A Christmas Carol, David Copperfield, Great Expectations, and Oliver Twist.
Who was Charles Dickens? A man of great passion, drive and intellect. Among English writers he is second only to William Shakespeare in literary prowess, fame and public recognition.
He was the second of eight children born on February 7, 1812, to John and Elizabeth Dickens. His mother taught him to read, his father considered him a young prodigy. He devoured the considerable amount of artistic and literary works available in his home, enjoyed trips to the theatre and adored stories told by his nursemaid. From age 7 to 9 he was schooled by a Baptist minister named William Giles. He was consumed by ambition and dreamed of becoming a gentleman.
But his youth became marked by hard times when his father was jailed for debt. At age 12 he was sent to live in a boarding house and work among a rough-edged crowd in a blacking warehouse, fixing labels to boot polish bottles ~ a harsh, impressionable experience that would later inspire the semi-autographical novel David Copperfield, and feed his view of society’s inequities.
A few years later, his father was released, and young Charles resumed a couple more years of schooling at an academy called Wellington House. At age fourteen he was employed as a clerk in an attorney’s office. He got his first journalism job at age 16, as a shorthand reporter in the courts, shortly followed by a position as a newspaper reporter.
Fueled by a desire for distinction, Dickens was an unusually hard-working apprentice, and a fast-growing disillusionment with politics led him to contribute essays and short stories to other newspapers and magazines (something he did throughout his entire life).
Connections developed as a political journalist gave him both success and a following, allowing him to begin publishing his own fiction early in his career. His first great success came with his monthly installments of The Pickwick Papers. At the time this was a publishing phenomenon, making the serialization of novels a profitable venture and available to folks who couldn’t ordinarily afford literary works. Within a few years he was regarded as one of the most successful authors of his time.
His novels were often a revealing commentary on humankind’s misgivings, his own disenchantment with the world’s economic drives and social injustices ~ an imperfect world we all know to be true, regardless of our stature.
“Through his books, we come to understand the virtues of a loving heart and the pleasures of home in a flawed, cruelly indifferent world.”
In 1836, Dickens married Catherine Hogarth, the daughter of his editor (although some say daughter of a newspaper co-worker). They had ten children before separating in 1858. Around that time Dickens began public readings of his work, including a series of readings in America in 1867-68, which took a physical toll on his already failing health. Buried in Poet’s Corner of Westminster Abbey in June of 1870, Dickens left an unfinished novel called The Mystery of Edwin Drood (I’d like to read that!) as well as fifteen completed novels, countless short works and an enduring following.
If you’ve read my last post, I stand corrected, thanks to my friend Mary.
There was one more really good, memorable ad besides the Chrysler/Clint Eastwood piece. (I hadn’t seen this one ~ must have been firing up the hot fudge sauce when it aired…) This one’s just a happy hoot! ~ and every bit as good for wit and creativity as the Chrysler ad was for class and message.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fe1cJPD_ZbA&feature=player_embedded
“Ads are the cave art of the twentieth century.”
~ Marshall McLuhan
If this statement is true, and if we consider the majority of this year’s Super Bowl ads, we’re becoming pretty forgettable.
Super Bowl advertising is eagerly anticipated by millions, almost as much as watching the game. (Some would argue that the ads are the main event). It’s a huge opportunity to hawk wares to a captive audience, and highly regarded as a showcase for some of the best & brightest commercials made.
So, I watched to see what cream would rise to the top, and was incredibly disappointed. Have I just become jaded and old-fashioned? As a reality check, I asked my teenage daughter if she found them entertaining. Her answer: “No.”
She was out of the room for the only one that I found powerfully memorable and worthwhile. It happened to be a serious ad, and featured Clint Eastwood (I’ll let that fact speak for itself). In case you missed it, here it is:
Aside from this one, I thought: “they just don’t make them like they used to!’ Okay, I’ll admit that the “we go” Budweiser dog ad was sort of cute, and I liked the one about entrepreneurs. So there, I found two more. But by and large there were too many ads and too little substance.
Of course, they don’t have to make them like they “used to”, except for maybe having some more class, more wit, more depth, more intelligent ingenuity.
Am I asking too much? I don’t think so. If the idea is to make a big impression, and get the most bang for the probably obscene amount of monies spent, they might take some tips from some great ads of Super Bowl’s past…
With the wealth of talent and creative energy in the world today, you’d think the 2012 Super Bowl ads could’ve been a little bit spectacular. In my opinion, it just goes to show that technology doesn’t equate with creativity, and bells and whistles don’t make the message.
"Living Large" at Chateau de Pau (Pau, Pyrénées-Atlantiques)
(ps: you can see all “where in the world is peace?” images compiled on our special “where in the world is peace?” page. Totes, mugs and things are available here. Send your own pictures to 52weeksofpeace@gmail.com and we’ll also post them on our FaceBook page. Let’s see where peace goes!)
To be fair, I’ll include a few pages from my own. But here’s the thing with me and sketchbooks: I don’t have an “official” sketchbook.
In truth, any piece of paper within arm’s reach qualifies as a drawing surface. As a result, my doodles and sketches and moments of brilliant insight are strewn about like ashes on a sea. Maybe that’s not such a good analogy. Maybe a dandelion in the wind. Whatever. For all my sense of orderliness, a regular sketchbook falls into a much looser category.
The point though, is that sketchbooks can be truly lovely, as can be seen via the traveling Sketchbook Project. Or in the lush genius of the 2010 publication of Street Sketchbook, recently shared by Brain Pickings (a terrific site with an ongoing must-see collection of wonderful stuff).
Clearly, sketchbooks have been elevated to works of art in and of themselves, and I think, rightly so.
My first sketchbook seduction came from Peter Beard’s marvelous diaries in The Adventures And Misadventures of Peter Beard In Africa. Deliciously detailed and jam-packed with words, illustrations and photos, newsprint and objects, the end-product of his runaway artistic sensibilities, his passion for form and love for Africa was occasionally disturbing, but always stunning.
from Peter Beard's collage-work diaries
from Peter Beard's collage-work diaries
By comparison to Beard, or the fantastic pages of Street Sketchbook, my own pages seem tame, bordering on dull. (Except for the random game of hangman.)
But I know, and you now know too, that I haven’t made a ritual of keeping a sketchbook, nor sketched with the intent for those pages to become a final, messy, glorious product. I’d like to someday, so I’ll add it to my list …. in the meantime, the important thing is simply to sketch.
Draw. Write. Cut. Paste. Thoughts, ideas, dreams; record them by hand. It’s a wonderful process – whether in a book meant for sketching, or on the back of a cereal box, or the edge of a client proposal … express yourself.
So ~ what’s in your sketchbook?
