Myoe Win Aung - watercolors

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Myoe Win Aung - watercolors
Fotografie di Giuseppe Leone
Ricordo tutto perfettamente: la prima volta che vidi una tempesta nella fiumara, con gli alti pioppi che si agitavano come prefiche lamentose, strappandosi le foglie per l’improvvisa morte del sole, il vento gelido che piegava le grandi querce, gli uccelli che sfrecciavano nel cielo rapiti dall’urlo della tempesta, le nere nubi che scendevano dal monte rovesciando gocce immense nel torrente che faceva fuggire le rane sul fondo degli acquitrini mentre le pulci d’acqua correvano a trovare asilo sotto le grandi foglie a riva. Poi arrivò l’urlo del tuono, lo squarciarsi del cielo, l’intensa luce che tutto e tutti abbagliò. Mi dissi che la natura era una madre potente ma che doveva veramente amarci per lasciarci vivere anche se per lei non c’era differenza tra noi e le foglie nel vento.
Ricordo i biscotti caldi che la nonna usciva dal forno, l’odore dello zucchero caramellato quando la zia vecchia faceva il torrone, la prima volta che sul fondo del mare dove il sole disegnava onde serpeggianti, vidi intensamente rossa una stella marina; ricordo il fermentare del mosto nella botte del nonno, il suo canto continuo, inarrestabile; ricordo sulla sommità dei monti ad agosto, le felci rosse danzare nel vento, i piccoli noccioli donare i loro candidi frutti, il grano coprire i monti e gli uomini disegnare con lui lunghe strisce ondeggianti grandi quanto il monte. Ricordo le feste di paese, l’odore dei ceci arrostiti, il colore dei giochi d’artificio, le donne in attesa attraversare la piazza in ginocchio salire la scalinata per arrivare all’altare maggiore a chiedere la salute per chi portavano in grembo e mentre le vedevo lasciare strisce di sangue suo gradini candidi della chiesa, capii che l’amore era una forza immensa che vinceva il dolore, piegava il ferro delle paure che ci imprigionano, rende chi è debole forte come una enorme montagna.
Ricordo don Calò che conosceva il giorno della sua morte e l’aspettava sereno sui gradini della chiesa, salutando chi passava, scherzando con noi bambini, osservando le rondini nel cielo prima del tramonto, finché un giorno d’improvviso si alzò e salì verso la casa in alto nel paese, salutando per l’ultima volta tutti quelli che incontrava prima di sdraiarsi a letto e, sorridendo, morire. Allora capii che la vita è un enorme solitudine che riesci a sopportare solo perché hai chi ti aiuta a portarne il peso. Questo io ricordo e dei miei ricordi ho fatto un metro con cui misuro ogni mio giorno capendo il senso e peso delle cose e degli uomini. Questo ricordo e della mia memoria ho fatto un orto i cui frutti nutrono i miei giorni, dandomi modo di capirne il senso e di vederne il bello.
I remember everything perfectly: the first time I saw a storm in the river, with the tall poplars that shook like mournful meadows, tearing off the leaves for the sudden death of the sun, the icy wind that bent the great oaks, the birds that darted into sky ravished by the scream of the storm, the black clouds that came down from the mountain, overturning immense drops in the stream that made the frogs flee to the bottom of the marshes while the water fleas ran to find shelter under the large leaves on the shore. Then came the scream of thunder, the piercing of the sky, the intense light that all and everyone dazzled. I told myself that nature was a powerful mother but that she really had to love us to let us live even if there was no difference between us and the leaves in the wind.
I remember the warm cookies that my grandmother used to come out of the oven, the smell of caramelized sugar when the old aunt was making nougat, the first time I saw a starfish intensely red on the bottom of the sea where the sun was drawing winding waves; I remember the fermenting of the must in the barrel of my grandfather, its continuous, unstoppable song; I remember on the summit of the mountains in August, the red ferns dancing in the wind, the little hazels giving their white fruits, the wheat covering the mountains and the men drawing with it long wavy strips the size of the mountain. I remember the village festivals, the smell of roasted chickpeas, the color of the fireworks, the pregnant women crossing the square on their knees, climbing the stairs to reach the main altar to ask for health for those who they were carrying and while I saw them leave strips of blood on the white steps of the church, I realized that love was an immense force that overcame pain, bent the iron of fears that imprison us, makes those who are weak strong like an enormous mountain.
I remember Don Calò who he knew the day of his death and was waiting for it serene on the steps of the church, greeting those who passed by, joking with us children, observing the swallows in the sky before sunset, until one day he suddenly got up and went up to the house high up in the country, greeting for the last time all those he met before lying down in bed and, smiling, dying. Then I realized that life is a huge solitude that you can bear only because you have someone who helps you carry its weight. This I remember and my memories I made a yardstick with which I measure my every day understanding the meaning and weight of things and men. This I remember and my memory I made a vegetable garden whose fruits nourish my days, giving me a way to understand its meaning and to see its beauty.
Some Self Portraits by Women Artists:
Sofonisba Anguissola (Italian, 1530-1625), Self Portrait at the Easel Painting a Devotional Panel, 1556
Judith Leyster (Dutch, 1609-1660), Self Portrait, ca. 1630
Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun (French, 1755-1842), Self Portrait in a Straw Hat, after 1782
Marie-Gabrielle Capet (French, 1761-1818), Self Portrait, c. 1783
Zinaida Serebriakova (Russian, 1884-1967), At the Dressing Table - Self Portrait, 1909
Nasta Rojc (Croatian, 1883-1964), Self Portrait, 1912
Tamara de Lempicka (Polish, 1898-1980), Self Portrait in the Green Bugatti, 1925
Leonor Fini (Argentine-French, 1908-1996), Self Portrait with Scorpion, 1938
Frida Kahlo (Mexican, 1907-1954), Self Portrait, 1945
Yana Movchan (b. in Kiev, Ukraine, 1971), Beautiful Me (Self Portrait), 2014
Schlossfreiheit-Berlin, 1923, Lovis Corinth
A slice of spring by Miles
The Three Stages of Woman (Sphinx)., 1894, Edvard Munch
Medium: oil,canvas
Jagoda Miłoszewicz (@jagodamiloszewicz)
Do you have any suggestions or ideas for a forest-y themed bedroom? I don't want go full kitschy (thinking like children's bedroom) because some of the pieces I already own are a little kitschy on their own (log pillow, mushroom night lights).
Oooh this is fun!
I would just be super obvious and get a tapestry and make that the main focal point, honestly. I like this one from Etsy.
I also like the idea of birch wallpaper:
I love the log pillow and mushroom night light! I think stringing some fairy lights around would make it super cozy. I know you don’t want it to be too kitschy, but these acorn lights are SO CUTE.
I like these sheets because they look like ferns, even though they’re supposed to be palm fronds I think! They’re a little more subtle and minimal than doing a pine tree sheet set.
Finally, I would be sure to have lots of plants and stick to a single accent color. Red might be nice because you have mushroom things.
Sophia Loren
Babette’s feast - Marjatta Hanhijoki, 1985.
Finnish.b.1948-Etching,
Etching
Je ne suis pas en train de dire que je n'aime pas travailler mais si les week-end pouvaient durer 7 jours, ça m'irait très bien. • I’m not saying that I don’t like to work but if weekends could last 7 days, I’d find that perfectly fine. • 📷 @parisinfourmonths
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