#prophet Michelangelo | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dysfunctional-doodle · 1 year

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Extract from my new fic where I make Mikey gain the ability to see the future, art coming soon. Fic is here if you would like to read it.

I’ve always had the distant idea that every Raph always dies early protecting others in every timeline. I don’t know why but something about it seems very plausible so naturally I wrote about it.

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angelheartcottage · 2 years

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Michelangelo’s paintings of various prophets (not in order): Joel, Jonah, Isaiah, Ezekiel, Zechariah, Jeremiah. The last photo is the last one of the ancestors of Christ. Tomorrow I will post details of different frescoes that I loved. #thechroniclesoffarnia #thingssoamazeme #wonder #michelangelo #sistinechapel #thesistinechapelexhibition #genius #painter #poet #artist #sculptor #prophets #ancestorsofjesuschrist #oldtestament #magnificent #art #onceinalifetime #gasp #incredible #ilovethis https://www.instagram.com/p/CjmbZ0PLOKm/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

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rosesforhekate101 · 2 years

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Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel: A Closeup

Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel: A Closeup

View On WordPress

#Art #Chapel #Exhibition #Michelangelo #Photo #Prophet #Sistine #Sybils

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icarus-suraki · 9 months

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No, you know what? While I'm all fired up about modern art and outsider art, let me introduce you to the works of James Hampton.

Pictured above is his monumental Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millennium General Assembly.

With scant education and no formal art education, James Hampton made these pieces out of his intense religious fervor and his own desire to create:

In 1950, Hampton rented a garage on 7th street in northwest Washington [DC]. Over the next 14 years, Hampton built a complex work of religious art inside the garage with various scavenged materials such as aluminum and gold foil, old furniture, pieces of cardboard, light bulbs, jelly jars, shards of mirror and desk blotters held together with tacks, glue, pins and tape. The complete work consists of 180 objects, many of them inscribed with quotes from the Book of Revelation. The centerpiece of the exhibit is a throne, seven feet tall, built on the foundation of an old maroon-cushioned armchair with the words "Fear Not" at its crest. The throne is flanked by dozens of altars, crowns, lecterns, tablets and winged pulpits. Wall plaques on the left bear the name of apostles and those on the right list various biblical patriarchs and prophets such as Abraham and Ezekiel. The text The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations' Millennium General Assembly was written on the objects in Hampton's handwriting.

He constructed all his pieces from materials he found or scavenged himself, "such as aluminum and gold foil, old furniture, pieces of cardboard, light bulbs, jelly jars, shards of mirror and desk blotters held together with tacks, glue, pins and tape."

It's not clear if Hampton himself regarded himself as an artist, a visionary, a prophet, or none of the above. His work, however, is regarded as art in the same way that Michelangelo's Pieta is regarded as art: art of a religious subject or concept.

He also "kept a 108-page loose-leaf notebook titled St James: The Book of the 7 Dispensation. Most of the text was written in an unknown script that remains undeciphered. ... Some of the text was accompanied by notes in English in Hampton's handwriting. In the notebook, Hampton referred to himself as St. James with the title 'Director, Special Projects for the State of Eternity' and ended each page with the word 'Revelation'."

The art was not discovered until after Hampton's death in 1964, when the owner of the garage, Meyer Wertlieb, came to find out why the rent had not been paid. He knew that Hampton had been building something in the garage. When he opened the door, he found a room filled with the artwork. Hampton had kept his project secret from most of his friends and family. His relatives first heard about it when his sister came to claim his body. When Hampton's sister refused to take the artwork, the landlord placed an advertisement in local newspapers. Ed Kelly, a sculptor, answered the advertisement and was so astounded by the exhibit, he contacted art collector Alice Denney. Denney brought art dealers Leo Castelli and Ivan Karp, and artist Robert Rauschenberg, to see the exhibit in the garage. Harry Lowe, the assistant director of the Smithsonian Art Museum, told the Washington Post that walking into the garage "was like opening Tut's tomb."

His work is now on display at the Smithsonian American Art Museum.

#james hampton #outsider art

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poems-from-around-the-world · 7 months

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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock - T.S. Eliot - USA

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair —

(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin —

(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ...

I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—

If one, settling a pillow by her head

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;

That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old ... I grow old ...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

#the love song of j. alfred prufrock #T.S. Eliot #USA #poem #poetry #poems from around the world

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vague-homosexual-crimes · 4 months

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webweaving + hands

The Prophet’s Song by Queen, Rembrandt's Hands? By Tony Belobrajdic, Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide by David Bowie, picture of David Bowie uploaded to Pinterest by Erin Marie, Take My Hand by 5 Seconds of Summer, 5 Seconds Of Summer Take My Hand world tour poster, Our Lady of Sorrows by My Chemical Romance, Hands 1 by Tony Belobrajdic, I Was Born For This by Alice Oseman, The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo

#web weaving #or something #idk I’ve been collecting lyrics about hands for a while #so I put them together with some other stuff #sorry I can’t find the photographer for the Bowie picture and I’m sure somek #someone will be like obviously it’s so and so cause they did the photography for Bowie in this time period but there wasn’t one listed #and I reverse image searched and didn’t find it #mcr #my chemical romance #5SOS #5 seconds of summer #iwbft #i was born for this #Alice Oseman #Tony Belobrajdic #queen band #David Bowie #Ziggy stardust #the creation of adam

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kecobe · 7 months

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Supper at Emmaus Caravaggio (Michelangelo Merisi) (Italian; 1571–1610) 1606 Oil on canvas Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan, Italy

Then arose Peter, and ran unto the sepulchre; and stooping down, he beheld the linen clothes laid by themselves, and departed, wondering in himself at that which was come to pass. And, behold, two of them went that same day to a village called Emmaus, which was from Jerusalem about threescore furlongs. And they talked together of all these things which had happened. And it came to pass, that, while they communed together and reasoned, Jesus himself drew near, and went with them. But their eyes were holden that they should not know him. And he said unto them, What manner of communications are these that ye have one to another, as ye walk, and are sad? And the one of them, whose name was Cleopas, answering said unto him, Art thou only a stranger in Jerusalem, and hast not known the things which are come to pass there in these days? And he said unto them, What things? And they said unto him, Concerning Jesus of Nazareth, which was a prophet mighty in deed and word before God and all the people: And how the chief priests and our rulers delivered him to be condemned to death, and have crucified him.… And they drew nigh unto the village, whither they went: and he made as though he would have gone further. But they constrained him, saying, Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent. And he went in to tarry with them. And it came to pass, as he sat at meat with them, he took bread, and blessed it, and brake, and gave to them. And their eyes were opened, and they knew him; and he vanished out of their sight. And they said one to another, Did not our heart burn within us, while he talked with us by the way, and while he opened to us the scriptures? (Luke 24: 12–20, 28–32)

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anipologist · 2 years

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Finrod Thoughts...

These are personal opinions/ideas but a fair number of them are extrapolations of canonical texts.

I don’t think Finrod is an especially gaudy elf (I have a hard time imagining any elf as gaudy actually) They like the stars and jewels remind them of the stars but I have never heard the night sky called garish and I think that even the most jewelry obsessed of elves probably still manage to be tasteful.

He likes beautiful things (he probably as a collection of silver and gold strung harps somewhere) but he is not possessive...he absolutely loves descending on friends and family with armloads of gifts. Then stands around hoping they'll like what he found/made for them. It's mostly endearing...Galadriel used to give him a hard time about it but after he dies she just desperately misses it.

I think he loves light (even a bit more than the average elf - Tolkien makes such a brutal point of him dying in the dark) and Nargothrond is a city of lights. I think he hangs lamps all over the city and there is an ever changing kaleidoscope of light and shadow dappled across the high ceilings and polished floors.

I think he loves the water and probably wears a lot of blue and green and grey but not much white (white reminds him too much of Alqualondë) he likes red but even Valinor he didn't wear it much because it usually led to pointed comments from Feanor about a Vanya in a Noldo's clothing.

Most of his sculptures are probably closer to Bernini than Michelangelo. And there is probably at least one hall that resembles a carven forest with trees rendered in stone, so life-like that you expect them to sway in the wind and the acoustics are mind-blowing. He likes going there when it is empty and working out new melodies.

I think the Teleri/Vanyar side come out more frequently than his people like, why can't his heart just be undivided Noldo...his amilessë is "The Noldo" isn't that supposed to be prophetic? Things would be so much easier, but he also loves having this un-Noldo side, he likes his weird and varied interests and he knows people say sharp and unkind things about it but he actually finds he doesn't mind being considered a little mad. Especially once he comes back to life.

He finds metaphysical and philosophical wandering just as fascinating as literal wandering. It’s like the intellectual Vanya side got mixed up with the Telerin wanderlust side and the results are vaguely terrifying. He is relentlessly curious and soaks up lore and knowledge and linguistics like a sponge. When he was very young he used to pester a couple of the more approachable Maiar with the dreaded questions of “why” and “how”. When he got older and had so far not been struck by lightning or anything he moved up the ranks and started talking to Nienna and Ulmo and Vaire and on one memorable occasion Manwë and Varda. It’s one of the reasons he clings to his respect of the Valar in Middle Earth (see the Athrabeth).

He tries desperately to be calm and in control and he mostly succeeds on the outside. Everyone seems to rely on him being a peace-maker and with Angrod, Aegnor and Galadriel as siblings not to mention the rest of his kin he can't really afford not to be. Not to mention he is at a severe disadvantage age-wise against the likes of Thingol, Fingolfin and Maedhros. He needs to be taken seriously as a leader. So he makes himself a diplomat...he already likes meeting new people and talking...how hard can it be?

I think he and Arafinwë are reflections of each other in a lot of ways, Finrod gets the proud, headstrong side of Finwë in a way that his father alone does not. So Finrod spends a lot of time and effort trying to be more like his father and manages fairly well on the surface. he is not a hypocrite...but pride takes time and patience and experience to overcome. He generally does a good job of catching himself but every now and then he sounds rather patronizing.

Arafinwë on the other hand sometimes wishes he was a bit less horrified by conflict and he does his best to seem sure and confident and in charge...but inside he absolutely detests even friendly conflict. Because of this most people think that Finrod and Finarfin are more like twins than father and son because they both hit a sort of happy medium on the surface.

But underneath, Finrod is all wild explorer and passionate adventurer, he wants to know things and discover everything and he is never happier than wandering somewhere no one has ever been before (either intellectually or otherwise) with nothing but his eager mind and his songs. Finarfin is never happier than when his family is safely asleep in the same house and he can go star-gazing with Earwen.

I think he is one of those odd people that has a foot firmly planted in in both the material world and the spiritual world and that is mostly a good thing. It gives him ridiculous amounts of control over illusions and songs for one thing. His illusions started off as party tricks and art and then he realized the espionage potential in Beleriand. It also makes him a little eldritch and terrifying but he usually keeps that side well hidden.

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themuseumwithoutwalls · 2 years

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MWW Artwork of the Day (10/9/22) William Blake (British, 1757–1827) Newton (c. 1795-1805) Color print finished in ink & watercolor on paper, 46 x 60 cm. The Tate Gallery, London

Blake owed a huge debt to Michelangelo, especially to the Sistine ceiling frescos, for the form and poses of his human figures. A naked(!) Newton here strikes a similar pose to that of Michelangelo's prophet Abias. Newton, who Blake considered the high priest of materialism, is shown imposing rational order on the world with the aid of a pair of dividers, similar to his image of the false god Urizen. Newton, man naked and created out of chaos, appears to be breaking through the chaos. Blake, however, was critical of reductive scientific thought. In this picture, the straight lines and sharp angles of Newton’s profile suggest that he cannot see beyond the rules of his compass. Behind him, the colourful, textured rock may be seen to represent the creative world, to which he is blind.

#William Blake #Newton #british artist

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insertawkwardpeacesignshere · 1 year

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Books Read in 2023

The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran // Jan 2nd

The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches by Sangu Mandanna // Jan 2nd-Jan 4th

The Gift by Daniel Ladinsky // Jan 5th-Jan 8th

Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michelangelo, and Me: A Graphic Memoir by Ellen Forney // Jan 10th-Jan 11th

Drizzle, Dreams, and Lovestruck Things by Maya Prasad // Jan 1st-Jan 12th

Heartstopper Volume 1 by Alice Oseman // Jan 14th (reread)

Heartstopper Volume 2 by Alice Oseman // Jan 15th (reread)

Hooked: How Crafting Saved My Life by Sutton Foster // Jan 15th

Lore by Alexandra Bracken // Jan 7th-Jan 16th

Belonging: A German Reckons with History and Home by Nora Krug // Jan 16th

Melt With You by Jennifer Dugan // Jan 17th-Jan 18th

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin // Jan 19th-Jan 22nd

The Bad Guys (Episode 1) by Aaron Blabey // Jan 24th (reread)

The Bad Guys (Episode 2): Mission Unpluckable by Aaron Blabey // Jan 24th (reread)

The Cartographers by Peng Shepherd // Jan 23rd-Jan 25th

Stories from the Tenants Downstairs by Sidik Fofana // Jan 26th-Jan 27th

The Miseducation of Cameron Post by Emily M. Danforth // Jan 25th-Jan 27th

Thinking AIDS: The Social Response to the Biological Threat by Mary Catherine Bateson and Richard A. Goldsby // Jan 27th

Answers in the Pages by David Levithan // Jan 27th

Redwood and Ponytail by K.A. Holt // Jan 28th-Jan 29th

The Stonekeeper (Amulet #1) by Kazu Kibuishi // Feb 6th

The Song the Owl God Sang by Chiri Yukie and Benjamin Peterson (Translator) // Feb 7th

Middlesex by Jeffery Eugenides // Jan 30th- Feb 12th

The Stonekeeper’s Curse (Amulet #2) by Kazu Kibuishi // Feb 6th-Feb 12th

The Ghost Map: The Story of London’s Most Terrifying Epidemic by Steven Johnson // Feb 10th-Feb 13th

No One Left to Come Looking for You by Sam Lipsyte // Feb 14th-Feb 21st

Ibn Tufayl’s Hayy Ibn Yaqzan: A Philosophical Tale by Ibn Tufayl and Lenn Evan Goodman (Translator) // Feb 21st-23rd

I Am Quiet: A Story for the Introvert in All of Us by Andie Powers // Feb 24th

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visaosubjetiva · 1 year

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David or David is one of the most famous sculptures by the Renaissance artist Michelangelo. The work portrays the biblical hero with impressive anatomical realism, being considered one of the most important works of the Renaissance. The sculpture is in Florence, Italy, the city that originally commissioned the work.

The sculpture is 5.17 meters high and represents the biblical hero David, one of the most frequented characters in Florentine art. Originally commissioned as part of a series of other statues of biblical prophets and heroes, David was slated to decorate one of the facades of Santa Maria del Fiore. However, after its completion, the sculpture was positioned in front of the Palazzo della Signoria, seat of the governorship of Florence, where it was officially unveiled to the public on September 8, 1504.

Due to the heroic nature represented, the statue symbolized the feeling of civil liberties that dominated the Republic of Florence. David's eyes, with serious and cautious countenance, were turned towards Rome. In 1873, a sculpture was applied to the interior of the Gallery of the Academy of Fine Arts while the public square received a replica in its place.

#david #michelangelo #art #leonardo da vinci #artists on tumblr #mis #photography #analog photography #analogico #fotografia analogica #fotojornalismo

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abellinthecupboard · 1 year

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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma percioche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo. Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair — (They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”) My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin — (They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”) Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? ... I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head Should say: “That is not what I meant at all; That is not it, at all.” And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.” No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old ... I grow old ... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

— T.S. Eliot

#T.S. Eliot #TS Eliot #T. S. Eliot #The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock #poetry #literature #writing

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grandhotelabyss · 1 year

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Granted that Aimee is a provocatrice who always wants to make the most shocking and reactionary remark she can (re: "red-blooded male" I think of the perennially jejune aesthete who once declaimed, "We all bleed the same red blood"), I will say this for the above Antipodean provocation, as someone who has for 10 years taught "Readings in the Graphic Novel" and "The History of Comics" and who is now writing an epic and controversial novel about a comic-book writer: it's a field where the gap between potential and performance is tragically wide.

I tell myself it's because we're just in the early days. The novel wasn't living up to its potential in 1723, and 1723 for the novel is 2023 for the graphic novel: Austen, Dickens, Balzac, Flaubert, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Melville, James—none of these have even been born yet.

If you think about it for two seconds, detaching your mind from social prejudice, you will conclude that a static sequential pictorial narrative usually accompanied by words is not an inherently juvenile art form. You can really only think it is if you dismiss or demote the visual tout court, Michelangelo right along with Moebius. But a number of social and economic factors condemned the form early to certain commercial simplicities, especially in America and Japan (less so in Europe, where it's also been taken seriously longer). The misguided rebellion against these commercial simplicities—the apotheosis of ugliness one finds in Crumb and his collaborators and successors—was to my mind a cure worse than the disease, and its legacy for the American "literary" graphic novel has been a disaster. (At least the most crassly commercial superhero artists could—what's the word?—draw.)

The form has produced a smaller handful of masterpieces than anyone wants to acknowledge, and an even smaller number of masterful oeuvres, and even these are compromised by being so shackled to indeed juvenile genres. Added to that, many of what are called masterpieces really aren't; they're flash-in-the-pan political sensations or the cult objects of ephemeral coteries. I can't tell you how many times I've been forced to ask myself: Do I like comics, really? Or do I just like Alan Moore? And how much do I like Alan Moore?

Tough love, I know, but somebody ought to say it every so often. I still believe the best is ahead. As Peter Milligan once said—and he had the talent to produce a significant oeuvre, but for some reason never did—if James Joyce and Pablo Picasso told a story together, it wouldn't be juvenile. And Joyce was interested in the form, while some of Picasso's work seems prophetic of its potential.

Finally, while writing a novel about a graphic novelist, I've felt an envy for the comic-book writer, who has a form as rigorous and rhythmic as a sonnet to work with on every page while I just canter along in prose. There's much to be done; I plan to write a graphic novel myself, in fact, sooner rather than later. The obstacles, however, are real.

In short, I believe the verdict will go against Aimee eventually, but I don't blame the jury for continuing to deliberate.

#comics #graphic novels #aimee terese

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wow-its-me · 1 year

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Ok turtles as wwe tag teams

(Rise)

Raphael - The BloodLine

Leonardo- Street Prophets

Donatello- Damage Control

Michelangelo- The New Day

#tmnt #rottmnt #wwe

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pritheeee · 4 years

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Sistine Chapel Ceiling: A neophyte summary

The Sistine Chapel is the large papal chapel built within the Vatican between 1477 and 1480 by Pope Sixtus IV. The Sistine Chapel ceiling, painted in fresco (method of painting water-based pigments on freshly applied plaster, usually on wall surfaces. The colours, which are made by grinding dry-powder pigments in pure water, dry and set with the plaster to become a permanent part of the wall) by Michelangelo between 1508 and 1512, is a cornerstone work of High Renaissance art.

The narrative starts at the altar and then is divided into three sections. In the first three paint works, Michelangelo tells the story of The Creation of the Heavens and Earth, followed by The Creation of Adam and Eve and then, the Expulsion from the Garden of Eden; finally the story of Noah and the Great Flood is displayed.

Ignudi, or nude youths, sit in fictive architecture around these individual pieces of paintings, and they are accompanied by prophets and sibyls (ancient seers who, according to tradition, foretold the coming of Christ) in the spandrels. In the four corners of the room, in the pendentives, the scenes depicting the Salvation of Israel is shown.

After the story of the heavens up to the expulsion to Earth, the story of Noah and the Great Flood can be seen. The most remarkable piece in this section is The Deluge. In this fresco, Michelangelo has used the physical space of the water and the sky to separate four distinct parts of the narrative. On the right side of the painting, a cluster of people seeks sanctuary from the rain under a makeshift shelter. On the left, even more people climb up the side of a mountain to escape the rising water. Centrally, a small boat is about to capsize because of the unending downpour. And in the background, a team of men work on building the arc—the only hope of salvation. Up close, this painting confronts the viewer with the desperation of those about to perish in the flood and makes one question God’s justice in wiping out the entire population of the earth, save Noah and his family, because of the sins of the wicked. Unfortunately, from the floor of the chapel, the use of small, tightly grouped figures undermines the emotional content and makes the story harder to follow.

Michelangelo completed the Sistine Chapel in 1512. Its importance in the history of art cannot be overstated. It turned into a veritable academy for young painters, a position that was cemented when Michelangelo returned to the chapel twenty years later to execute the Last Judgement fresco on the altar wall.

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myfemininedivine · 2 years

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lemme join in on the selene love train!!!! you’re an absolute blessing to have here, actually one of the sweetest people i’ve interacted with 🫂 thank u for not only sharing your talent with us but also being so kind to everyone u come across <3 hope you’re doing okay and i’m sending u lots of love queen

i always say every day I’m humbled but the cavities I have from the sweetness in my inbox. I’ll never be over it.

The way you’re one of the sweetest beings on this green earth u don’t understand. My heart is heavy for u. This is like being told ur a prophet by Jesus LMFAOOOOO Michelangelo just called me a great painter Y’all

Thank u so much for sending me a sweet ask and being one of the sweetest along w my mutuals. And in general reading my works and being on my dash. I wish I had more words for u but I love u and I hope you take care every day. ❤️

#asks #thank u!#tears fr

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