#hirschfield

[oldshowbiz]

Ed Wynn by Al Hirschfield

[wakewithgiggli]

The Forgotten History of the World’s First Trans Clinic

The Institute for Sexual Research in Berlin would be a century old if it hadn’t fallen victim to Nazi ideology

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[RAR] Living with American Indian Art: The Hirschfield Collection [pdf+epub+mobi]

“Among the greatest private collections of Plains and Plateau Indian art in the world.” ―Gaylord Torrence, Senior Curator of American Indian Art, The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Living with American Indian Art: The Hirschfield Collection contains numerous masterworks, the great majority of which have never been published or exhibited. This book brings the collection into the scholarly domain as surely as any museum publication, making it accessible to the rest of the world for the first

[unsaidoutloud]

Only when I am quiet for a long time

Only when I am quiet for a long time and do not speak do the objects of my life draw near.

Shy, the scissors and spoons, the blue mug. Hesitant even the towels, for all their intimate knowledge and scent of fresh bleach.

How steady their regard as they ponder, dreaming and waking, the entrancement of my daily wanderings and tasks. Drunk on the honey of feelings, the honey of purpose, they seem to be thinking, a quiet judgment that glistens between the glass doorknobs.

Yet theirs is not the false reserve of a scarcely concealed ill-will, nor that other, active shying: of pelted rocks

No, not that. For I hear the sigh of happiness each object gives off if I glimpse for even an instant the actual instant –

As if they believed it possible I might join their circle of simple, passionate thusness, their hidden rituals of luck and solitude, the joyous gap in them where appears in us the pronoun I

Jane Hirschfield

[oncetamed]

This Was Once a Love Poem

This Was Once a Love Poem by Jane Hirshfield This was once a love poem, before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short, before it found itself sitting, perplexed and a little embarrassed, on the fender of a parked car, while many people passed by without turning their heads. It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement. It remembers choosing these shoes, this scarf or tie. Once, it drank beer for breakfast, drifted its feet in a river side by side with the feet of another. Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy, dropping its head so the hair would fall forward, so the eyes would not be seen. IT spoke with passion of history, of art. It was lovely then, this poem. Under its chin, no fold of skin softened. Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat. What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall. An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks. The longing has not diminished. Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat, the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus. Yes, it decides: Many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots. When it finds itself disquieted by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life, it will touch them—one, then another— with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.