The opening three bars of Variation IV (Haydn Variations), here inscribed “Andante…zu freundlicher Erinnerung, J. Brahms, Wien Okt. ‘83”.
trying on a metaphor

roma★
Stranger Things
will byers stan first human second
tumblr dot com
DEAR READER
Monterey Bay Aquarium

if i look back, i am lost

Origami Around
sheepfilms
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

oozey mess

JVL
taylor price
almost home

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

tannertan36

shark vs the universe
Misplaced Lens Cap
Mike Driver
seen from South Africa

seen from Singapore

seen from Malaysia

seen from Argentina
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Lithuania

seen from United States
seen from Lithuania
seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from Sweden
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia

seen from Switzerland
@bbinacorner
The opening three bars of Variation IV (Haydn Variations), here inscribed “Andante…zu freundlicher Erinnerung, J. Brahms, Wien Okt. ‘83”.
But to a trained pianist, the descent into a modern pit is just as often disheartening. The might of a grand piano always suggests to me an athlete in the posture of a one-armed push-up. But to descend into a pit unto a synthesizer is as to climb into a crypt with a deceased beloved and embrace a two-dimensional plastic rendering of her skeleton – as thin and as mass-produced as a page protector, replete with the latter’s unwelcome and threatening glare. Even the figurative foot of the deceased beloved, the pedal, slides away with every touch, is attached only by a wire, fastened as if only by a gruesome and exposed tendon. If I were to play – even mildly – with the Lisztian full torso conception of a pianist when sent to the frail bones of the synthesizer, I would be in fear of pushing the keyboard over or of pushing it off of its stand.
The sight of synthesizers is always disturbing. They represent a profoundly negative compression – the kind of negative compression humanity accepts increasingly with virtual reality. The synthesizers in a modern musical theater pit look like patients on tables, patients plugged into wires.
(via The Conservatory School Address: Coleridgean Reason and the Hack Pianist – The Cross-Eyed Pianist)
Clara Haskil’s hands by Gaston de Jongh, 1930.
La nuit de Noël, Gustave Doré, undated.
Seated Figure with Book, Duilio Barnabé, 1957.
From a conversation between Ernest Guiraud and Debussy, Debussy: Volume 1, 1862-1902: His Life and Mind (by Edward Lockspeiser)
Ludwig van Beethoven - Romances, violin, orchestra op. 50, F major | Library of Congress
Henri Matisse at his home, villa Le Rêve, in Alpes-Maritimes, Vence. Photos by Henri Cartier-Bresson.
I think the main reason I don’t like much ‘modern art’ (besides poor aesthetics) is that it’s often so hyper-individualized and solipsistic.
For one, the West hasn’t had a universally pronounced style or taste since Impressionism.There’s no art today, as much as there are ‘arts’, which are heterogeneous, shapeless forms, that share little common features except being united in difference.
For much of modern art, the result is that the viewer is all too often struck with the question of, ‘well what does this mean’ upon viewing it. Contemporary works of art feel like they exist in a vacuum; they doesn’t exist in a tradition but stand against every tradition.
To some extent this can be seen by the increasing difficulty it is to divide art in to analytic categories. And really by the 20th century or so, art classifications become a sort of relativistic discipline. It’s much easier nowadays to speak of modern artists than modern art movements.
And this informs the subject matter of the art itself. Art today often reflects the subjectivity of the artist. It’s indeterminate, personalist, and responsive to the values of creativity and ‘authenticity’. Best exemplifying this trend is the new focus on minimalism and simplicity for an authentic individualized effect. In film this is showcased by Dogme 95, in literature The New Puritans, in music Lo-Fi Indie, etc.
But my gripe is that this art ultimately says little. The last time I was at an art gallery I saw an exhibit that was a collage of pictures of the artists parents and the places that she herself had traveled to in Europe. The only thing that struck me from viewing it was a recollection of the the art critics dialog in 8 ½:
This life is so full of confusion already, that there’s no need to add chaos to chaos…. And you would actually dare leave behind you a whole film, like a cripple who leaves behind his crooked footprint. Such a monstrous presumption to think that others could benefit from the squalid catalogue of your mistakes! And how do you benefit from stringing together the tattered pieces of your life?
If art is to mean something it should express a common humanity, a common connection. That modern art tends to reflect a jumbled cacophony of disparate voices says something about our society at large but I see little value in anti-social art.
Gustav Klimt - Freundinnen (1913)
pencil on paper 55 x 35 cm
Joan Miró • detail of a lithograph, Parler seul poème Tristan Tzara (1950)
Wilhelm Leibl (German, 1844 – 1900)
Hands holding a Book, N/D
Oil on canvas. 25.5 x 34.5 cm.
Pablo Picasso, Sleeper (Dormeuse),1938.
Degas with Christine and Yvonne Lerolle, daughters of the painter and collector Henry Lerolle. They had been depicted previously in Renoir’s portraits. Photo by Degas, ca. 1895.
Dinu Lipatti’s last recital
Details from The Descent from the Cross by Rogier van der Weyden, c. 1435
Museo del Prado, Spain
“Do not apologize for crying. Without this emotion, we are only robots.” ◭ Elizabeth Gilbert
Detail from The Annunciation, Rogier van der Weyden, ca. 1400-1464.