✝️Burnt Sienna

  • 22 April 2018

Hmm … Breughal – what a Master! Corot …  Lautrec … dear Vincent … the Great Vermeer. All these wonderful giants of Art Portraiture.
Ah! BURNT SIENNA … a rare find indeed !  A fine painter and draughtsman – those soft colours and exquisite composition – that sure line.

            What have we here ? Some words on the back, scrawled with a fustic pencil ~ by a tremulous hand, me thinks.  I can with some focusing adjustments just about make out what the artist has written.
“As I limp towards the epilogue of my life, I am lamentably an artist without portfolio. An undiscovered bewildered child trapped in a septagenarian’s body. In earlier times, my aspirations  had been many and varied, nay vacuous … a good singer – ideally to have sung some opera. I have a fine baritone voice nurtured by my father when as a choir-boy he inspired me to embrace classical music and  song. Later, I spent some time in a disused flour-mill; its shuttered wings, fluttering and flapping in a north-westerly, were to awaken my interest in gluten-free Aerophonics a writer of vague prose and, perhaps, to be recognised as a discordant poet with arrhythmic concordance.But life is, like music, transient and whimsicalI remember at my college singing the school anthem “Gaudeamus Igitur”, beautifully adapted in Brahms Festival Overture and the line “Vita nostra brevis est” was an unknown truth at the time. I must do my best  now to appear sane and sensible & mask any form of insanity and make all this seem, like Life, to have design and purpose, when it is in fact a load of ol’ tosh.          

“When you are old and grey and full of sleep and nodding by the fire, Take down this book and slowly read and dream of the soft look your eyes had once and of their shadows deep.How many loved your moments of glad grace. And loved your beauty with love false or true. But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face. And bending down beside the glowing bars, murmur, a little sadly, how love fled and paced upon the mountains overhead. And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.” W.B.YEATS


The Engraving Lover~Honoré Daumier (1808-1879)