My Scrapbook @palcsibankschuler - Tumblr Blog

Don't only practice your art, but force your way into its secrets.

Beethoven

Alice Bailly (Swiss, 1872-1938), The Pink Garden, 1907. Oil on canvas, 71 x 92 cm. Musée cantonal des beaux-arts de Lausanne, Switzerland. source

via pintoras

pixel8or

(Peter Gabriel)

#SoundCloud #music #Peter Gabriel

forevernoon-deactivated20181218

Edward Hopper - 1930

Practice any art, music, singing, dancing, acting, drawing, painting, sculpting, poetry, fiction, essays, reportage, no matter how well or badly, not to get money and fame, but to experience becoming, to find out what's inside you, to make your soul grow.

Kurt Vonnegut

thunderstruck9

Josef Albers (American/German, 1888-1976), Study for Homage to the Square: Signal, 1966. Oil on masonite, 32 x 32 in.

lavilladeste

Alexis Weissenberg plays Ravel’s Tombeau de Couperin.

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=guyztVN7txI)

thunderstruck9

Henri Le Sidaner (French, 1862-1939), Maisons blanches à Quimperlé [White houses at Quimperlé], 1919. Oil on canvas.

stunningpicture

500 years of walking up the marble stairs of The Leaning Tower of Pisa.

poetictouch

Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) Read by Nigel Davenport

The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand; Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.