Archive for the ‘Art’ Category

Collective Farmer on a Bicycle (1935)

Alas, not the great work of literature you thought it would be?

… Heroes generally prove flawed.

As cycling supremos, authors,

philosophers, go …

Human, all too human.

 

(To be continued…)

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Viewing Malevich's Black Square

How does one value Art?

It’s surely in the eye of the beholder,

cliché, but true.

Does it really matter if “the market” values it as worth millions,

if you think it mediocre? (and vice versa)

Worth, and dearth, of imagination,

often, we like what we’re told is “good”.

And, while, we’re talking about evil,

does it make much difference if Art is stolen by Nazis,

or bought and locked away by a rich, compulsive collecteur?

 

(To be continued…)

       

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Petrarch & Laura's First Meet (Marie Spartali Stillman)

She asked if I still played cards.

Alas, not since Red Berlin turned Brown, I replied.

So much, then and since, lost meaning.

 

(To be continued…)

       

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Ivan Shadr, v1

Women, men,

deep and shallow,

we all want to be liked,

appreciated,

ultimately desired.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

Georgii Brousentsov - Au bord de l'eau

I see art,

and it’s beautiful.

The creation is truly a sensation!

But I understand what most men see,

on the wall,

in their souls,

and what they feel…

Base arousal.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

In the cold, hard light of this morning’s groggy exhaustion,

last night’s artistic endeavor seems

like shit,

expelled from body.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

 

 

 

 

“Doggerel!”

they exclaimed,

dismissing it,

blindly

and deliberately

missing the beauty.

… Elitist

pissing contest.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Shtange, Irina Dmitrievna (1906-1992) - Tri Gracii

 

I ask him why men like looking at naked women,

the more,

the better.

“It’s primal…” his slurred reply,

jaw gaping,

“and inspiring.”

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

The poetry

real,

even when translated by a soul-less machine,

retains something, beyond time and place

(as if nourished by a Spirit from on High),

it speaks softly and strong,

rhythmically and long,

it lives on

in every reader

who listens

to the voice within.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

I read, see and hear the news.

Ugly, alleged truths,

incomplete stories,

manipulation,

confusion and pain.

I feel the need to be informed

but

I want to run away.

I need something different.

I want to embrace beauty.

I need to see art,

everyday.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat