There used to be a logic in the way time passed

Unknown



Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them 
over the bare plaster walls of my soul




Anna Ancher




'View from a Window, Genoa'


John Singer Sargent 


Edouard Vuillard 


George Dunlop Leslie


Harriet Backer

Eilif Peterssen

 it is weather’s window,   

weather’s particular echo, here   

as if this place had been once,   

now vacant, a door that had had   

hinges swung in air’s peculiar   

emptiness, greyed, slumped elsewhere

Edouard Vuillard


Giovanni Giani





Gleb Goloubetski

Old sky freshened with cloud bulk   

slides over frame of window the   

shadings of softened greys a light   

of air up out of this dense high   

structured enclosure of buildings   

top or pushed up flat of bricked roof   

frame I love I love the safety of   

small world this door frame back   

of me the panes of simple glass yet   

airy up sweep of birch trees sit in   

flat below all designation declaration   

here as clouds move so simply away.

Sarah Wimperis

Windows now lit close out the   

upper dark the night’s a face   

three eyes far fainter than   

the day all faced with light   

inside the room makes eye re-

flective see the common world   

as one again no outside coming   

in no more than walls and post-

card pictures place faces across   

that cautious dark

Igor Shipilin







Luis Romero


John Singer Sargent 

Konstantin Yegorovich Makovsky

Footfalls echo in the memory
 Down the passage which we did not take 

 Towards the door we never opened 
Into the rose-garden.

  My words echo 

 Thus in your mind.  

                                   

  But to what purpose 

Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
                                   

 Other echoes 

 Inhabit the garden. 

Shall we follow?

Jodi Jensen


Avi Belaish

 
1. line - Isaac Marzun
2, 3, 4. - excerpts from a poem of Robert Creeley
5. excerpt from a poem of T.S. Eliot

&& &&

From Third Avenue On

AND now she walks on out turned feet
Beside the litter in the street
Or rolls beneath a dirty sheet
       Within the town.
She does not stir to doff her dress,
She does not kneel low to confess,
A little conscience, no distress
       And settles down.

Ah God! she settles down we say;
It means her powers slip away
It means she draws back day by day
       From good or bad.
And so she looks upon the floor
Or listens at an open door
Or lies her down, upturned to snore
       Both loud and sad.

Or sits beside the chinaware,
Sits mouthing meekly in a chair,
With over-curled, hard waving hair
       Above her eyes.
Or grins too vacant into space—
A vacant space is in her face—
Where nothing came to take the place
       Of high hard cries.

Or yet we hear her on the stairs
With some few elements of prayers,
Until she breaks it off and swears
       A loved bad word.
Somewhere beneath her hurried curse,
A corpse lies bounding in a hearse;
And friends and relatives disperse,
       And are not stirred.

Those living dead up in their rooms
Must note how partial are the tombs,
That take men back into their wombs
       While theirs must fast.
And those who have their blooms in jars
No longer stare into the stars,
Instead, they watch the dinky cars—
       And live aghast.

by
Djuna Barnes

on the brink of faith

...collage of everything before you, frangipani

and escargot, five-for-a-dollar boxes

of macaroni, and French cherries

from an old woman in Auvergne

who insisted on the gift

because it was so marvelous

to see a woman traveling alone.

“Today in my heart
a vague trembling of stars
and all roses are
as white as my pain.” 


Rupert Charles Wulsten Bunny


Mary (May) Wilson Watkins Preston 


“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art....
It has no survival value; 
rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.” 




'Art Studies'


Charles Baugniet

“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; 
they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, 
and the most patient of teachers.” 







Margaretha Roosenboom






Alfred Stevens


John White Alexander 


Carlo Cressini


Walter Granville-Smith


Gustave Caillebotte




Minerva J. Chapman






Edouard Vuillard


Conrad Kiesel, 'The Lesson'

flowers disappeared

they are in the same

state of non-being

as Emily Dickinson

We the dead have conversation

in our gardens

about our lack of

existence.

 
Lesser Ury




1. excerpt from a poem of Leslie Adrienne Miller
2. line - Federico Garcia Lorca
3. quote - C.S.Lewis
4. quote - Charles WillimEliot
5. excerpt from a poem of Etel Adnan