Albrecht Altdorfer. The Battle of Issus. 1529.

Verses

'The Coliseum'
Edgar Allen Poe
1833

Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length- at length- after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now- I feel ye in your strength-
O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls- these ivy-clad arcades-
These moldering plinths- these sad and blackened shafts-
These vague entablatures- this crumbling frieze-
These shattered cornices- this wreck- this ruin-
These stones- alas! these grey stones- are they all-
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

"Not all"- the Echoes answer me- "not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men- we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent- we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone- not all our fame-
Not all the magic of our high renown-
Not all the wonder that encircles us-
Not all the mysteries that in us lie-
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

Pieter Aertsen. The Meat Stall. 1551.

¡Jesus Take the Wheel!

to sir with love

This one is particularly hard. Alexander McQueen commits suicide at the age of 40, months after one of his most triumphant collections in memory, top-full of smarts and artisanship, beautiful far beyond yr typical, flouncy color story.

Where some played Gothic, McQueen meant it. From the start, straight out of the East End and St. Martins, he dressed women (and then men) to provoke, to be strange and difficult, displaced in this world. In the bring-on-the-glamorous-decades middle 90s (sort of owned by Brit rival Galliano), his wicked, Futurist/Victoriana/Punk bristled me. But as he softened slightly and I hardened, I caught up and realized he was a genius.

Upon this news, one thinks, with a certain chill, about the solitary/polar path of an artist, the severity, the high and low that can lend so much to work, successful work, but also sap health and happiness.

Be well in the next.

Third Station of The Cross—

Jesus, the cross you have been carrying is very heavy. You are becoming weak and almost ready to faint, and you fall down. Nobody seems to want to help you. The soldiers are interested in getting home, so they yell at you and try to get you up and moving again.

As a child, sometimes I start to do something, but then get tired of it. I hurry to get finished and sometimes don't do my work well. Sometimes I don't pay attention to what I should be doing. When things get hard for me, sometimes I give up.

As an adult, I sometimes put things off. I give up too easily, and sometimes don't do my work as well as I know I can.

A new house...ruby glass, pocket doors, only two previous owners.