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Holy Ganesh Chaturthi to all …..Smt. Tumuluru Prabha and Sri Krishna Murty
We celebrate festivals like the Ganesha Chaturthi as holidays. But they are not holidays but holy days. ‘Ga’ symbolises buddhi (intellect), ‘Na’ stands for vijnana (wisdom). So, Ganapati is the master of buddhi and vijnana. The universe is sustained by Ganas (gods) and Ganapati is their master. In this world, everybody has a master, but Ganapati has none. He is a master unto himself. This is the birthday of the Master of Masters. Ganapati is also called Mooshika Vahana (one who has a mouse as his vehicle).
You may wonder how a small mooshika can carry on its back a hefty personality like Vinayaka. Here mooshika does not mean a mere mouse. It symbolises the darkness of ignorance because it is in darkness that the mouse moves about. Hence, Mooshika Vahana is one who subdues ignorance and dispels darkness. It is only when we understand the inner significance of the Vinayaka principle that we will be able to celebrate Vinayaka Chaturthi properly
Vighneswara is the deity presiding over the intelligence and he endows devotees with purity of intellect and the power of discrimination between right and wrong and between the permanent and the transient. Mundane pleasures are momentary and fleeting. Your aim must be to seek that spiritual bliss which is enduring and unchanging and which transcends the pleasures of the earth and heaven. Keeping this ultimate aim in view, one should do one's duties in this world and lead a life of righteousness. (SSS Vol.22)
Students should cultivate qualities, which are dear to God. Before undertaking any task, enquire whether it is pleasing to God. You are bound to attain success if God is pleased with your actions. Do not go by your own likes and dislikes. Conduct yourself in accordance with God’s wish. Eschew selfishness and self-interest. Cultivate sacredness and steadfastness. This is the teaching of Lord Ganapathi. Ganapathi confers on you buddhi (intellect) and siddhi (fulfilment). One can attain siddhi only when one has good Buddhi. You have to love God wholeheartedly and offer Him all that you do. Then even a simple task performed by you will become significant.
In this land of Bharat, Ganapathi is highly venerated. Ganapathi worship is prevalent in all parts of India. Lord Ganesh shines in every heart. Who is Bhagawan (God)? ‘Bha’ means effulgence. One whose effulgence spreads everywhere is Bhagawan. Having self-effulgent God in your heart, why should you search for Him outside? Look into your heart.
Embodiments of Love! Students, Boys and Girls! Divinity can be attained only through pure and selfless love. You may chant hundred and eight names or thousand and eight names of God. But without selfless service, it is of no use. All these are sterile activities. Service alone is fruitful. (SSS Vol. 33)
One of the main teachings of the Bhagavad Gita is contained in the sloka:
“Sarvadharman Parityaja Maamekam Saranam Vraja,
Aham Twa Sarvapapebhyo Mokshaishyami Ma Suchah”
(Surrender unto Me and perform all your actions as
an offering to Me. I will destroy all your sins and confer
liberation on you.) SSS Vol.35
-- It is the danger of our conceptualizing intellect to get farther and farther away from life by losing itself in pure abstractions, because the more abstract a concept, the easier it is to manipulate it.
-- Logic is all the more applicable in the strictest sense, the more purely hypothetical or fictitious the premises and the less they are interfered with by reality. Pure logic is only purchasable at the cost of its content of reality ; it is attainable only when dealing with concepts which have lost their content of reality and which, can be filled with any desired content.
-- Thus, emptiness in Buddhism means emptiness of anything that is existing in itself, be it as a thing or a being or an absolute concept. Even if we speak of the totality of the world or the universe, we mean thereby the totality of relations, unity in interrelated diversity. The concept of undifferentiated oneness is a concept without any content of reality. Only when the intellect is isolated from life, the fundamental fact of polarity and diversity is overshadowed by the ideal of absolute oneness. Polarity does not deny unity in any way ; on the contrary, it presupposes an underlying unity, because unity in the spiritual and actual sense is not mere uniformity but the perfect cooperation of different qualities and forces and the inseparability of polar opposites.
-- This is the very heart of Tantric experience : the recognition of this polarity and its integration in the union of "male" and "female" qualities, of creative and receptive, active and passive, physical and spiritual, finite and infinite qualities, etc. It is the recognition that there can be no form without emptiness, no emptiness without form, that there can be no knowledge without ignorance, because knowledge can only arise out of a limitation of awareness, a focalization or concentration which consists in the exclusion of all nonrelevant elements of "reality," i.e. against a background of "ignorance," of willfully ignored elements. This "ignorance" has nothing to do with the term avidya, which is characterized by the delusion of separete and unchangeable egohood.
-- Wisdom, therefore, is not omniscience, in the sense of knowing or being aware of everything at the same time, but the recognition of our true nature as a manifestation of the totality of the universe under the unique form of our time-and-space conditioned individuality.
-- Knowledge does not consist in the accumulation of facts, but in the ever-present faculty of discernment and clear insight into the nature of things. This is possible only if we look at them ever and again with fresh eyes---as we had never seen them before---i.e. from the standpoint of creative nescience or the creative emptiness of receptivity that allows us to experience a new dimension in a factually "known" phenomenon or an apparently familiar situation.
-- Would life be worth living without this nescience? Would life be bearable with perfect knowledge of every future event? Could life have any meaning, if it were coupled with omniscience? The meaning of life---like the meaning of a journey---lies not in the arrival at a certain place but in the progress toward it ; in the movement itself and in the gradual unfoldment of events, conditions, and experiences. Omniscience, in the literal meaning of the word, would be utter dullness and boredom, worse than ignorance : to know everything is equal to knowing nothing. Knowledge can have meaning only in relationship to something or someone ; to the knower. The knower, however, must be an individual, centralized consciousness, distinguishing itself from its surroundings, in spite of its essential unity, which may be felt and experienced so strongly that, as it is said, the knower and the known become one.
/ Lama Govinda / Mandala Books /
"Passer by, on reading this memorial, reflect on your own life's fickle fleeting fortune
Here lies CHRISTOPHER SMITH whom in his lifetime, his children found loving, his friends found kind- hearted, his parishioners found sincere, his peers found of sound doctrine and one and all found steadfast.
A priest of this church learned, famed and loyal, this great theologian was outstanding in teaching and intellect; he was no less conspicuous in his way of life. He excelled in various faculties, though not professing any, and was therefore worthy of this, the most praiseworthy of inscriptions, because he deemed himself unworthy of the humblest. Of all the abundant comforts of his life, he readily recognized the greatest to be his wife Constance Smith, a woman of charm, modesty and an outstanding disposition, and held in the highest affection by him. Just as he was distinguished amongst men, so did she shine amongst women - undoubtedly a most blessed woman who was a daughter of the supreme church and married to a supreme husband. They were ever equal companions in their views and in all turns of fortune; For many years they experienced great mutual joy with humility and with the approach of death, they suffered great illness with calm resolve. Finally in those painful times, they yielded cheerfully to death. While each of their bodies repose here in the cloisters of the dead, their souls rejoice, love, hope and exult in the embrace of the Redeemer
He died 19th day of July 1688 aged 78
She died 7th day of May 1686 aged 66"
(Christopher Smith was presented to the Living in 1640 entering in the Register that he has read the 39 Articles. His witnesses were Stephen Jarrett and William Steele, “both churchwardens.” He held the living for 48 years, all through them Commonwealth and for 28 years after the Restoration. The Registers of the time are in bad order and there is nothing in them to throw light on conditions in Cherington at that time, with one exception. At the end of the oldest Register is written, “1653 Collected for the inhabitants of the towne of Marlborough in the parish of Cherington the sum of 14 shillings and 3d. Christopher Smith, Minister.” This refers to a disastrous fire in Marlborough in 1653, which destroyed over 100 houses. A public appeal for help was issued, “backed” it is said by Cromwell. The sum of 14s. 3d. was generous from so small a village at a time when a working man’s wages were but 9d. or 1s. a day.
It may be worth while to notice that Christopher Smith signs the entry as “Minister” and not as Rector. Many incumbents were expelled from their Livings by the
Parliamentarians, and those suffered to remain may have found it wise not to claim any rank. When he died in 1688 the entry in the Register is “Christopher Smith, Rector, was buried.”
In September 1688, a second Christopher Smith became Rector, who may have been his son as he describes himself as “of Cherrington in the county of Warwick,” and Charles Smith, one of the witnesses to his reading the Articles may have been a brother. The Rector has added in the Register, “Memorandum that Edward Day, Senior, William Bishop, Senior, William Meades, and William Steele were all present also at my reading ye said Articles and din’d with me the same day.” He died in 1695 and the entry in the Register is “Mr. Christopher Smith, Rector, was buried.”
(Margaret Dickens - freepages.rootsweb.com/~simba/history/cherington/maintext... ) - Church of St John the Baptist, Cherington Warwickshire.
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made from braided pine needles :D
Can mean many things.
Spirit, Mind, Body
Father, Son, Holy Ghost
Mother, Father, Child
Past, Present, Future
Power, Intellect, Love
Creator, Destroyer, Sustainer
Creation, Preservation, Destruction
Thought, Feeling, Emotion
Mother, Maiden, Crone
Other world, Mortal world, Celestial world
…
www.nga.gov/stories/1874-birthday-of-impressionism.html
www.nga.gov/exhibitions/2024/paris-1874-impressionist-mom...
www.thebulwark.com/p/the-moment-when-impressionism-took-t...
"The National Gallery’s exhibition on the first Impressionist show is serious, elegant, and packed with beauties.
This past April, I started a series of stories about Impressionism, the movement launched — unofficially, anecdotally, and circumstantially — in April 150 years ago at an exhibition in Paris of around 200 works by 30 artists, some renegades, some misfits, some mainstream, some simply mad as hell. What is now called the first Impressionist salon — there were to be eight, the last in 1886 — ran from April 15 to May 15, 1874.
Enough by-the-numbers. The collective was called the Société anonyme des artistes peintres, sculpteurs, graveurs, etc., a joint-stock company whose investors — the artists, painters, sculptors, printmakers, and whatever et cetera slapped down a few sous — could display and sell works of their own choosing, unjuried by the heavy hand of official taste.
This is my fifth and my last Impressionism-anniversary story. It’s not a case of saving the best for last, but Paris 1874: The Impressionist Moment at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C., is the pièce de résistance. It’s so bracing, so keen and sharp, it alone might compel the Swamp to drain itself, conceding that art invigorates and heals but also disinfects.
Paris 1874 doesn’t reconstitute all of what’s known today as the first Impressionist salon, though it comes close. Rather, it clarifies and cleanses old thinking and situates the exhibition that unfolded at 35, Boulevard des Capucines, in a social, political, and, especially, an economic context. Good, old-fashioned, how-do-we-market-the-merde-out-of-these-dabs economics.
Art for art’s sake aside, nothing exists in a vacuum. What was this thing, the birth of Impressionism?
The first gallery presents a juxtaposition of old against new, bite-size and in a nutshell. Paris 1874 then challenges, surprises, and delights as the curators tease complexity from what seemed so easy. Monet’s Impression, Sunrise, long touted as the first Impressionist picture, is there. It’s not really “the first.” We learn along the way that Impressionism wasn’t so much Athena springing fully grown from the head of Zeus as a sumptuous cassoulet, one that simmered not overnight but for years.
That said, Impression, Sunrise is famous, a beauty, and almost never leaves the Musée Marmottan in Paris, having been stolen in 1985 by Japanese gangsters and missing until it was found in Corsica five years later.
What’s old? The official Salon, that’s what. Next to Impression, Sunrise is Jean-Léon Gérôme’s L’Éminence Grise, from 1873, a medal-winner at the 1874 Salon, which opened two weeks after the Société show. The annual Salon, and the affair started in the 1660s, was sponsored by the Académie des beaux-arts, France’s most prestigious art school, think tank, and honors society. It was a juried art show displaying what was seen as the pinnacle of taste in art, filtered by tradition. It was also, though it was unaware of this, the Western world’s preeminent art fair.
In 1874, about 3,700 works by nearly 2,000 artists were on view, packed floor to ceiling at the Palais de l’Industrie, the Gothic Revival pile built in 1855 for the Paris World Fair and thanks to Napoléon III’s effort to exceed the splendor of the Crystal Palace and London’s Great Exhibition of 1851. Around 500,000 people attended.
Gérôme’s painting is emblematic. It’s a history painting. A hierarchy among genres still governed French establishment taste, with history painting on top and, in descending order, religious and landscape subjects, scenes of everyday life, and portraits. Mixed in the hierarchy were sculpture, highly regarded, drawings, near the bottom because they were seen as preparatory, and prints, nice but small and, since geared to individual, private contemplation, unable to convey the grandeur that was French culture. Gérôme’s painting is highly finished, each inch crisp, clear, and resolved, crafted with both élan and precision. We can imagine the artist’s intellect and skill but don’t want to see his gestures. That would be tacky.
L’Éminence Grise is an inspired choice, too, because of its subject, François Leclerc du Tremblay, a Capuchin friar and Cardinal Richelieu’s fixer and right-hand man. Richelieu was the power behind the throne of Louis XIII, so Tremblay possessed discrete, hidden power — much as the Salon’s jury did. It had overt power in selecting what was and wasn’t displayed, considered not only quality but politics and personalities, ruled with opacity, and rankled in its rejections. The jury’s selection process was rigged to favor older, successful artists, some also professors.
Also in the first gallery are Monet’s Boulevard des Capucines, from 1873, displayed in the Société show, a sparkling, fleeting view of a crowded, upscale city street where, in the spacious, luxurious studio of the photographer known as Nadar, the Société show happened. It’s dappling and fresh and a glass hive. It’s peak Impressionism.
Near it is Camille-Léopold Cabaillot-Lasalle’s La Salon de 1874, a view of a gallery in the official exhibition. That’s a clever choice, too. It shows us the Salon’s display strategy, which is mind-blowing abundance, and its well-heeled visitorship, social, attentive, and refined, no jeans, and shirtlessness and bare feet “prohibé.” And no pet-eating illegals allowed.
Praise the Lord and all the saints, and let’s toss the seraphim, the cherubim, and the Four Living Creatures in the mix, too. Nowhere in Paris 1874 do we wade through puddles of tears over white supremacy, settler colonialism, or the prison-industrial complex. The exhibition is straight art history. What a tonic.
There’s real trauma on one score, though, and this helps us understand the Impressionist phenomenon. The Prussian invasion and the Commune — Paris was sacked by revolutionaries, chunks of the city burned, and thousands died — unfolded in 1870 and 1871. The Haussmann demolition and reimagining of Paris had just happened. Promethean bounce-back is part of the miracle that’s human nature, but, in Paris, the will to make something new rather than to rehash the old seems to have been a powerful part of Impressionism’s DNA and an impetus for the Société.
The année terrible cut multiple ways. Artists hoping to pay the bills, much less thrive, believed that the Commune endangered careers because, being a communist movement, it would destroy the bourgeois, art-buying public. Degas, Giuseppe De Nittis, and Henri Rouart, all Société exhibitors, were from affluent backgrounds, but Monet, Cézanne, Sisley, Pissarro, and Boudin couldn’t afford to be too nonconformist. Many of the Société artists had fled Paris during the war and subsequent upheaval. New, impromptu studios and new settings were a creative jolt. Napoleon III was out in 1870. The Third Republic was in.
Questioning authority had cachet, but unhappiness with the Salon wasn’t new. Some was natural. Reject an artist — and Degas was rejected many times — and a new belligerent is born. Manet’s Déjeuner sur l’herbe was notoriously nixed by the Salon. Starting in 1863, artists whose work the Salon jury had rejected held a Salon des Refusés. And by 1873, artists such as Degas, Renoir, and Monet, whose work showed a freer, outdoorsy, more spontaneous character, saw the Salon’s jury system as a road to nowhere. For them, the Société offered the freedom to exhibit, which meant the freedom to market. The Société show would give no awards, which the Société’s members felt were warped by art-world politics.
Paris 1874 celebrates the eccentricity of the Société show, and it also explains it. Renoir’s The Dancer, whose skirt is like a puffy cloud, Sisley’s and Pissarro’s luminous, breezy landscapes, Boudin’s pastel cloud studies, Degas’s ballet dancers, and Monet’s work are iconic. They’re impressions, through their quick-take look and free handling of paint. There’s no moral message, though voyeurs would be pleased. Berthe Morisot’s bourgeois women at leisure and views of the new Paris are there, too, as well as the technology of a modern age. With a palette of gray-blue, ochre, and rose, Sisley’s Seine at Port-Marly has to be the prettiest water-pump station on Earth. Mundane and exurban, it supplied the water to irrigate Versailles’s gardens.
Then there are the oddball artists and objects. Auguste Ottin’s marble bust of Ingres is far removed from the avant-garde, but he was famous and had agreed to be the Société’s treasurer. Édouard Brandon painted scenes of Jewish life. Degas, his buddy, twisted his arm, not for aesthetic reasons but to boost the Société’s paying shareholders. Ludovic Lepic was another Degas friend. He was rich and influential and had a fondness for dogs, whose portraits in the Société show have to be its most counterintuitive works.
The location of the Société show — Nadar’s studio — was much calculated and symbolic. The pioneer of Paris portrait photography, Nadar was modern to the core and then some. An amateur balloonist, he organized mail delivery by hot-air balloon during the Commune blockade, inventing airmail. Nadar’s space was free, the biggest point in its favor, but the movers and shakers among the Société — mostly Degas — thought the neighborhood was in sync with their mission and spirit. It was the heart of the new Paris.
Nearby were Garnier’s new opera house; Le Printemps, the fancy department store; boutiques; the House of Worth; and the Bourse, Paris’s commodities exchange, though it hadn’t been rebuilt yet. Nadar’s space had skylights with adjustable blinds, an elevator, an interior fountain for gentle gurgles, and, in case of a hot spell, air-conditioning.
The walls, to the artists’ delight, were smoky red fabric, the floors were carpeted in red abstract flowers against a black field. Blues and greens in landscapes popped like firecrackers. Red is the color of passion and a good color for evening events meant to enliven and engage rather than sedate. It’s a good dining-room color, especially if dinner is by candlelight. Set against a red wall, Renoir’s The Theater Box got an extra jolt of drama. Unlike the Salon, the Société show wasn’t packed and stacked. Art had room to breathe.
Paris 1874 smartly avoids a black-and-white contrast between the Société and Salon exhibitions and debunks a good-versus-evil approach to them. Both shows, we see, were an eclectic affair. Manet’s The Railway, from 1873, was in the Salon show and, now, it’s in Paris 1874. It’s a scene of modern life, dab-packed, luminous, bright, and less narrative than anecdotal and serendipitous. Gérôme’s L’Éminence Grise is didactic. Manet’s picture stars a sassy, multi-blue bow, a sleeping puppy, a bunch of grapes, an iron grate, and puffs of steam. It’s as Impressionist as it gets. Zacharie Astruc, with 14 works in the Société show, many watercolors, was, like Gérôme, an Orientalist.
There are 45 or so works of art in Paris 1874 that were in that year’s Salon. This is a lot, and the old-versus-new point could have been made with far fewer. Still, I can’t begrudge a place in the sun for Bouguereau, Alma-Tadema, or Henri-Paul Motte, whose Trojan Horse was his Salon debut and a favorite of mine this week.
The first-rate catalogue is edited by Sylvie Patry from the Musée d’Orsay and Anne Robbins from the National Gallery. What’s becoming standard in museum catalogues now are lots of essayists — Paris 1874 has 15 — and short essays that are themselves either impressions and shallow or tangential tributes steered by the curators to their friends. Nothing of the sort here, since the essays, most a few pages, are still rich and satisfying, and, if the French practiced cronyism, at least the cronies delivered substance.
Anchor pictures such as Impression, Sunrise get an essay of their own. It’s too bad the National Gallery didn’t incorporate more of the gold nuggets in this essay into the gallery interpretation of Impression, Sunrise. The painting was placed in the introductory gallery, so it gets introductory messaging. In the book, we learn that the painting is a case study in Impressionism’s complexities and contradictions. Depicting Le Havre’s harbor, it’s lovely and quintessential, with wet-on-wet execution to make the colors blend, single, rapidly applied strokes, cool blue grays, passages of pink, streaks of yellow, and an orange-red sun. It’s morning in Le Havre, then one of France’s most polluted cities, so pretty it’ll kill you. Impressionism isn’t always parks, beaches, and gardens. An astrophysicist recently found, looking at the painting and weather records, that it was done on November 13, 1872. Many of the works by Pissarro, Sisley, and Renoir in the Société show were done around the same time, so what was first is up for grabs.
Paris 1874 isn’t a miniature survey of Impressionism. It does, though, review basic themes and dedicates spaces to modern life in public spaces and at home, suburban leisure, and landscape. I loved the section on the Parisienne, the chic, sophisticated young Paris woman who has managed to remain an icon through every phase of modernity. She’s lively, frank, elegant, and sometimes she’s a courtesan, but who cares? Renoir’s Parisian Girl from the Société exhibition might look like a bit of a simp, but her blue hat, blue dress, and blue gloves make the picture more a color and a craze than a portrait of a person. Indigo-mania reigned supreme in 1874.
Paris 1874 isn’t a miniature survey of Impressionism. It does, though, review basic themes and dedicates spaces to modern life in public spaces and at home, suburban leisure, and landscape. I loved the section on the Parisienne, the chic, sophisticated young Paris woman who has managed to remain an icon through every phase of modernity. She’s lively, frank, elegant, and sometimes she’s a courtesan, but who cares? Renoir’s Parisian Girl from the Société exhibition might look like a bit of a simp, but her blue hat, blue dress, and blue gloves make the picture more a color and a craze than a portrait of a person. Indigo-mania reigned supreme in 1874.
By the by, the Société show attracted only 3,500 visitors, a decimal point of a fraction of what the Salon got. Only four works of art sold. By the end of 1874, the Société dissolved. Word of mouth, though, was good, and critics were more positive than negative.
Patry, one of the curators of Paris 1874, wrote a good essay on whether or not the 1877 renegade exhibition really started the movement we call Impressionism. Only 18 artists exhibited so it was more focused, the idiosyncratic artists from the 1874 Société show were gone, and the look was more coherent. Monet, Degas, Cézanne, Renoir, Sisley, and Pissarro each displayed more than 20 paintings, so, for each artist, the show was a miniature solo survey.
In 1874, artists and critics were calling the style and technique of the intransigeants, the rebels — and, yes, the Impressionists — the new thing, for it wasn’t yet seen as a movement. In 1877, “Impressionism” entered French dictionaries. And Renoir’s Bal du moulin de la Galette was there. By then, each of the Impressionists was better known, more successful, and had committed collectors. The Salon still had a few more years to go but not many. In 1881, the French government stopped giving it money. By 1890, it was splitting into pieces. So was Impressionism, too, but the torch was passed."
www.nationalreview.com/2024/09/an-impressionism-150th-bir...
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What I love about photography is that it quite sublimely combines art with science; it is the visual manifestation of renaissance. Intellect, art, philosophy, science, craftsmanship and passion all rolled into one. I can satisfy the inner desires of my soul as much as I can satisfy the need to use my body, my hands, my eye in the creation of beauty. When you’re locked up in the dim brown light surrounded by that sour, slightly acrid smell and you are watching as that blank whiteness turns in an image, the one that you created through the use of your mind and your eyes and your luck. There is no digital equivalent to that. Just as microwave dinners will never be able to replace the home cooked meal that was lovingly prepared. We are running out of time it seems, not in an end of the world sense(although, that’s got as much chance as anything I suppose), but in the sense that we are trying to fit 36 hours worth of “stuff” plus a few hours of sleep into each day. What satisfaction can we get from all the hustle and bustle and productivity that we get each day if we are too busy hustling and bustling to stop and smell those beautiful roses?
I’m a film snob; a position which I’m decidedly prepared to relish for all of my eternity. Ask the people that really know me and they will tell you that I am a bit snobbish about all things which incite passion in my soul. Photography and playing in the kitchen being at the very top of the list.
I found this on Zeb’s photostream and the sentiment really struck a chord with me.
“That deep sense of not just recording light and time, but of preserving it.”
Prom, Feral, Tayla and I taking on Goc, Son of Gruul. The level 70s wiped, and Tayla saved the day by using her roguish intellect – i.e. stand back when Feral charges in!
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Image from 'Satan: or Intellect without God. ... Eighth edition', 002534493
Author: MONTGOMERY, Robert Author of “Satan.”
Page: 65
Year: 1841
Place: Glasgow
Publisher: Thomas Murray
Following the link above will take you to the British Library's integrated catalogue. You will be able to download a PDF of the book this image is taken from, as well as view the pages up close with the 'itemViewer'. Click on the 'related items' to search for the electronic version of this work.
Recently, I revisted a suburb of Tokyo I remembered fondly from 7yrs back. Despite the rapid gentrification and too much hipsterism tipping the balance of Shimokitazawa's charm, there are still nuggets of its lived past/present breathing perhaps their last. A crumbling old house with its unpretentious "display" of its owners' wealth of books, a lovingly modified bicycle seat for the little ones, a strangely open balcony concept without any barriers perched on a roof, the old style way of trading through a little window... The windows to a city's soul is in the details. - Shot on 35mm
Hoi An Silk Village is a tourism project to an ancient weaving village of Quang Nam that inherits 300-year-old history of the “Maritime Silk Road” at Hoi An commercial port. This project attracts the intellect of Cochinechina culture researchers, a convergence of traditional silk for people to learn about the history and the “costumeculture” in the world’s cultural heritage Hoi An.
Hoian Silk Village
Add: 28 Nguyen Tat Thanh Street, Hoian, Vietnam.
Tel: +84-5103-92 11 44 – Email: sales@hoiansilkvillage.com – Mob: +84-935 502 575
Exhibition Hall: 33 Nguyen Thai Hoc Street, Hoian Town, Vietnam.
Cassius Vox had always been a woman of contradictions. Her appearance alone—a sharp mix of rebellious punk aesthetic and polished elegance—spoke volumes of a life lived on her own terms. The black-and-white leather jacket, perfectly tailored to fit her silhouette, mirrored the duality that defined her existence: a razor-sharp intellect housed in a world that, at times, felt like chaos. Her piercing pink-and-black mohawk, a throwback to the world of her youth, symbolized the rebellious spirit that she had never abandoned, no matter how much she climbed the social ladder.
Growing up in a high-tech urban sprawl, Cassius had witnessed the extremes of society—its thriving tech hubs, its sprawling slums, its glitzy corporate towers, and its run-down back alleys. It was in these alleyways, filled with neon signs and dark shadows, where she first realized her power. By day, she worked as a top-tier cybersecurity analyst for one of the largest megacorporations in the city. By night, she delved into the underground world of hacking, not for profit, but for a cause—exposing the very systems that controlled and manipulated people’s lives.
Cassius never saw herself as a hero or a villain—just someone with a mind that worked faster than most, capable of bending the systems to her will. In the office, she was known as a quiet but capable professional. Her colleagues saw her as aloof, not understanding the true power she wielded behind the scenes. They saw the polished outfit and thought she was just another corporate drone. Little did they know, she was the shadow in the system, pulling the strings when no one was watching.
Her hacker alias, "Zero-Byte,” was whispered in the dark corners of the internet, feared by corporations and governments alike. Through her hacking skills, she had taken down corrupt corporate giants, exposed government conspiracies, and revealed the ugly truths that the world was not ready to see. The chain hanging from her belt was a symbol of her dual identity—one that spoke to the physical world of authority and power, and the other to the online world of information warfare.
But even as she took down corrupt systems, Cassius was still looking for answers to her own internal struggles. Her upbringing in a world that worshipped progress and technology had left her emotionally disconnected, unsure of where she belonged in a society that valued data over humanity. The hustle, the grind, the constant pressure to be more—she had long since become numb to it all. Yet, in the moments of quiet solitude, as she walked through the sterile hallways of her office or stood alone in the silence of her apartment, the weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders.
As the world around her continued to hurtle forward, with new technologies promising salvation or destruction, Cassius found herself standing at the crossroads. She had the power to shape the future, but did she have the strength to face the consequences of her actions? Was she just a product of the system she had spent her life fighting against, or could she truly break free from the cycle?
The hallway in the image—where she stands, poised and confident—was where she began her transformation. It wasn’t just a physical space; it was a metaphor for her journey. The hallway was the space between where she had been and where she was going, a path of uncertainty that beckoned her forward. The chain on her belt was not just a symbol of her rebellion, but also the anchor that kept her grounded, reminding her of the stakes involved.
Cassius Vox was on the edge of a revolution, not just in the world, but within herself. Would she continue to fight from the shadows, pulling the strings of the digital world? Or would she step into the light, ready to take on the full force of the system and bring about true change? Only time would tell, but one thing was certain: the world was about to change, and Cassius would be at the heart of it.
Lancaster has grown startups from millions to billions as a chief revenue officer and President of 3 of the most successful startups in software business history.
all you get in 650,000 hours
if you're lucky then your dead
says the voice inside my head
that keeps me moving on
it keeps me singing these songs
- "Four Chords" The Classic Crime.
Cassius Vox had always been a woman of contradictions. Her appearance alone—a sharp mix of rebellious punk aesthetic and polished elegance—spoke volumes of a life lived on her own terms. The black-and-white leather jacket, perfectly tailored to fit her silhouette, mirrored the duality that defined her existence: a razor-sharp intellect housed in a world that, at times, felt like chaos. Her piercing pink-and-black mohawk, a throwback to the world of her youth, symbolized the rebellious spirit that she had never abandoned, no matter how much she climbed the social ladder.
Growing up in a high-tech urban sprawl, Cassius had witnessed the extremes of society—its thriving tech hubs, its sprawling slums, its glitzy corporate towers, and its run-down back alleys. It was in these alleyways, filled with neon signs and dark shadows, where she first realized her power. By day, she worked as a top-tier cybersecurity analyst for one of the largest megacorporations in the city. By night, she delved into the underground world of hacking, not for profit, but for a cause—exposing the very systems that controlled and manipulated people’s lives.
Cassius never saw herself as a hero or a villain—just someone with a mind that worked faster than most, capable of bending the systems to her will. In the office, she was known as a quiet but capable professional. Her colleagues saw her as aloof, not understanding the true power she wielded behind the scenes. They saw the polished outfit and thought she was just another corporate drone. Little did they know, she was the shadow in the system, pulling the strings when no one was watching.
Her hacker alias, "Zero-Byte,” was whispered in the dark corners of the internet, feared by corporations and governments alike. Through her hacking skills, she had taken down corrupt corporate giants, exposed government conspiracies, and revealed the ugly truths that the world was not ready to see. The chain hanging from her belt was a symbol of her dual identity—one that spoke to the physical world of authority and power, and the other to the online world of information warfare.
But even as she took down corrupt systems, Cassius was still looking for answers to her own internal struggles. Her upbringing in a world that worshipped progress and technology had left her emotionally disconnected, unsure of where she belonged in a society that valued data over humanity. The hustle, the grind, the constant pressure to be more—she had long since become numb to it all. Yet, in the moments of quiet solitude, as she walked through the sterile hallways of her office or stood alone in the silence of her apartment, the weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders.
As the world around her continued to hurtle forward, with new technologies promising salvation or destruction, Cassius found herself standing at the crossroads. She had the power to shape the future, but did she have the strength to face the consequences of her actions? Was she just a product of the system she had spent her life fighting against, or could she truly break free from the cycle?
The hallway in the image—where she stands, poised and confident—was where she began her transformation. It wasn’t just a physical space; it was a metaphor for her journey. The hallway was the space between where she had been and where she was going, a path of uncertainty that beckoned her forward. The chain on her belt was not just a symbol of her rebellion, but also the anchor that kept her grounded, reminding her of the stakes involved.
Cassius Vox was on the edge of a revolution, not just in the world, but within herself. Would she continue to fight from the shadows, pulling the strings of the digital world? Or would she step into the light, ready to take on the full force of the system and bring about true change? Only time would tell, but one thing was certain: the world was about to change, and Cassius would be at the heart of it.
IS LITERATURE A SCIENCE?
-Seshendra Sharma
Visionary Poet of the Millennium
"Can literature be treated slightingly? My friend relegated literature to the position of a pass time and considered it with no more value. This was done by him in contrast to the great material sciences which alone are held by him in high esteem as products of intellect and objects worthy of man's pursuit. I have to think that this mistake arises out of an erroneous attitude towards literature or failure to have come across correct and ideal forms of literature or not having sufficiently exercised his mind in the matter of proper appreciation of its purposes and functions. Looked at from the correct perspective, literature has a high place in the general scheme of human knowledge. It can only be ranked with the great sciences, because - All the various sciences explain so many species of living and non-living matter or so many stages of evolution as for instance, inorganic matter is explained by inorganic chemistry, plants explained by botany, Animals by biology and finally man by physiology and so on and so forth. After creation reached the stage of man, a new chapter has opened and an unprecedented course takes in the line of creation. That is, as seen never before in nature, man began to change the environment to suit his life unlike his preceding species which changed themselves to suit the changing environment and life. so after the augury of the new chapter, the latest species, namely man, undergoing physical change by any environmental change, and thereby perpetuate the line of evolution in such terms, was elated once for all. However it is difficult to say as to how long this history of man will continue without evolution of a new and more advanced species of life higher than man from the physical point of view. Nevertheless it is now possible to presage on the available data of historical, archeological and scientific material that man's evolution, or to be more correct, the furtherance of evolution of creation is not hereafter going to be towards the formation of new physical forms but it could be only towards the attainment of new intellectual and spiritual heights. But what does this new stage of evolution consist of? In fact we are 218 ™êÇ≤Ï`«º^Œi≈x now witnessing, the ever expanding horizons of mind and its immense potentialities. In the wake of this development pursuit of human knowledge has finally culminated in the endeavour to understand the inscrutable and mysterious behaviour and phenomenon of human mind. To unravel the tangled fabric of mental process, its reactions, its effects, its vagaries etc., and to delve deep into the dark recesses of its abysmal bowels and cull out its treasured secrets, has become the final and the most interesting enterprise of man. In the wake of this glorious enterprise arose the phantoms of psychology, occult sciences, yoga, philosophy, literature and ever so many activities of superb inexactitude. Literature seeks to explain the emotional and the intellectual stage of the evolving man. For a more precise expression, I should say it endeavours to explain the latest stage of man's evolution or creation's evolution, for that matter. The extent of knowledge so far mankind acquired, of the internal and the external universes, only indicates the history of our mind and its evolution But literature particularly that form of it, dealing with the intricate fibres of human feelings and sentiments, explains to us, of what the mind has come to be, that is, its ways, its capacities and caprices. The role has not been played by any science or any branch or form of human pursuit except literature. My friend, of course rises the contention that psychology is exactly the department of knowledge which fulfils this purpose; but I feel it is only as much as to say that organic chemistry reveals the secret of sugar's taste. The said science, at best, can only explain the composition and the texture of the chemical compound Sugar, but by no means it can pretend to explain its effect on human tongue, Similarly psychology can evolve certain principles and indicate by certain symbols, the broad outlines of the forces at work behind the mental processes, as for instance, the principles underlying its behaviour in the case of the 'Oedipus' complex. So this aspect of mind is best explained only by literature and never adequately by psychology because this part of human personality or being can never be clearly grappled by a system of knowledge which tends to postulate and reduce itself into mere symbols and principles which are called science. This aspect of our being is so vague, so deep, so inlaid in the darkest regions of mind that our very language fails very âı¿+O„^Œ 219 often to hold it in its grip. How then, can a narrow symbolical and inflexible system achieve the purpose? It needs a very comprehensive and flexible method to hold the entire range of this very illusive and exclusive subject in an extensive and grand sweep; and that is done by literature alone. Psychology is not even its poor substitute because its purpose can be seen to be different by a subtle anatomy of the science. If psychology is the dynamics of mind, we can say literature is its science of properties of matter. That appears to be broadly speaking, their relationship to each other. Yet another comparison may be given, If psychology is the grammer of mind literature is its prosody. Finally I would even go to the extent of saying, that the place of literature cannot be taken by any science-form to achieve the same purpose. The system, with which you have to understand this particular aspect of man's mind has got to be only an artform. Thus literature may be said to be performing the role of science though not in its exact garb. So literature demands to be elevated to a revered and indispensible position in the grand gallery of human knowledge.
The Deccan Chronicle
English Daily : Hyderabad
Monday September 8, 1969
------------
Visionary Poet of the Millennium
An Indian poet Prophet
Seshendra Sharma
October 20th, 1927 - May 30th, 2007
Visionary Poet of the Millennium
www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/
Rivers and poets
Are veins and arteries
Of a country.
Rivers flow like poems
For animals, for birds
And for human beings-
The dreams that rivers dream
Bear fruit in the fields
The dreams that poets dream
Bear fruit in the people-
•* * * * *
The sunshine of my thought fell on the word
And its long shadow fell upon the century
Sun was playing with the early morning flowers
Time was frightened at the sight of the martyr-
- Seshendra Sharma
"We are children of a century which has seen revolutions, awakenment of large masses of people over the earth and their emancipation from slavery and colonialism wresting equality from the hands of brute forces and forging links of brotherhood across mankind.
This century has seen peaks of human knowledge; unprecedented intercourse of peoples and
perhaps for the first time saw the world stand on the brink of the dilemma of one world or destruction.
It is a very inspiring century, its achievements are unique.
A poet who is not conscious of this context fails in his existence as poet."
-Seshendra Sharma
(From his introduction to his “Poet’s notebook "THE ARC OF BLOOD" )
•* * * * *
B.A: Andhra Christian College: Guntur: A.P: India
B.L : Madras University: Madras
Deputy Municipal Commissioner (37 Years)
Dept of Municipal Administration, Government of Andhra Pradesh
Parents: G.Subrahmanyam (Father) ,Ammayamma (Mother)
Siblings: Anasuya,Devasena (Sisters),Rajasekharam(Younger brother)
Wife: Mrs.Janaki Sharma
Children: Vasundhara , Revathi (Daughters),
Vanamaali ,Saatyaki (Sons)
Seshendra Sharma is one of the most outstanding minds of modern Asia. He is the foremost of the Telugu poets today who has turned poetry to the gigantic strides of human history and embellished literature with the thrills and triumphs of the 20th century. A revolutionary poet who spurned the pedestrian and pedantic poetry equally, a brilliant critic and a scholar of Sanskrit, this versatile poet has breathed a new vision of modernity to his vernacular.Such minds place Telugu on the world map of intellectualism. Readers conversant with names like Paul Valery, Gauguin, and Dag Hammarskjold will have to add the name of Seshendra Sharma the writer from India to that dynasty of intellectuals.
* * *
Seshendra Sharma better known as Seshendra isa colossus of Modern Indian poetry.
His literature is a unique blend of the best of poetry and poetics.
Diversity and depth of his literary interests and his works
are perhaps hitherto unknown in Indian literature.
From poetry to poetics, from Mantra Sastra to Marxist Politics his writings bear an unnerving pprint of his rare genius.
His scholarship and command over Sanskrit , English and Telugu Languages has facilitated his emergence as a towering personality of comparative literature in the 20th century world literature.
T.S.Eliot ,ArchbaldMacleish and Seshendra Sharma are trinity of world poetry and Poetics.
His sense of dedication to the genre of art he chooses to express himself and
the determination to reach the depths of subject he undertakes to explore
place him in the galaxy of world poets / world intellectuals.
Sorrow makes us all children again - destroys all differences of intellect. The wisest know nothing. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
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…
www.nga.gov/stories/1874-birthday-of-impressionism.html
www.nga.gov/exhibitions/2024/paris-1874-impressionist-mom...
www.thebulwark.com/p/the-moment-when-impressionism-took-t...
"The National Gallery’s exhibition on the first Impressionist show is serious, elegant, and packed with beauties.
This past April, I started a series of stories about Impressionism, the movement launched — unofficially, anecdotally, and circumstantially — in April 150 years ago at an exhibition in Paris of around 200 works by 30 artists, some renegades, some misfits, some mainstream, some simply mad as hell. What is now called the first Impressionist salon — there were to be eight, the last in 1886 — ran from April 15 to May 15, 1874.
Enough by-the-numbers. The collective was called the Société anonyme des artistes peintres, sculpteurs, graveurs, etc., a joint-stock company whose investors — the artists, painters, sculptors, printmakers, and whatever et cetera slapped down a few sous — could display and sell works of their own choosing, unjuried by the heavy hand of official taste.
This is my fifth and my last Impressionism-anniversary story. It’s not a case of saving the best for last, but Paris 1874: The Impressionist Moment at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C., is the pièce de résistance. It’s so bracing, so keen and sharp, it alone might compel the Swamp to drain itself, conceding that art invigorates and heals but also disinfects.
Paris 1874 doesn’t reconstitute all of what’s known today as the first Impressionist salon, though it comes close. Rather, it clarifies and cleanses old thinking and situates the exhibition that unfolded at 35, Boulevard des Capucines, in a social, political, and, especially, an economic context. Good, old-fashioned, how-do-we-market-the-merde-out-of-these-dabs economics.
Art for art’s sake aside, nothing exists in a vacuum. What was this thing, the birth of Impressionism?
The first gallery presents a juxtaposition of old against new, bite-size and in a nutshell. Paris 1874 then challenges, surprises, and delights as the curators tease complexity from what seemed so easy. Monet’s Impression, Sunrise, long touted as the first Impressionist picture, is there. It’s not really “the first.” We learn along the way that Impressionism wasn’t so much Athena springing fully grown from the head of Zeus as a sumptuous cassoulet, one that simmered not overnight but for years.
That said, Impression, Sunrise is famous, a beauty, and almost never leaves the Musée Marmottan in Paris, having been stolen in 1985 by Japanese gangsters and missing until it was found in Corsica five years later.
What’s old? The official Salon, that’s what. Next to Impression, Sunrise is Jean-Léon Gérôme’s L’Éminence Grise, from 1873, a medal-winner at the 1874 Salon, which opened two weeks after the Société show. The annual Salon, and the affair started in the 1660s, was sponsored by the Académie des beaux-arts, France’s most prestigious art school, think tank, and honors society. It was a juried art show displaying what was seen as the pinnacle of taste in art, filtered by tradition. It was also, though it was unaware of this, the Western world’s preeminent art fair.
In 1874, about 3,700 works by nearly 2,000 artists were on view, packed floor to ceiling at the Palais de l’Industrie, the Gothic Revival pile built in 1855 for the Paris World Fair and thanks to Napoléon III’s effort to exceed the splendor of the Crystal Palace and London’s Great Exhibition of 1851. Around 500,000 people attended.
Gérôme’s painting is emblematic. It’s a history painting. A hierarchy among genres still governed French establishment taste, with history painting on top and, in descending order, religious and landscape subjects, scenes of everyday life, and portraits. Mixed in the hierarchy were sculpture, highly regarded, drawings, near the bottom because they were seen as preparatory, and prints, nice but small and, since geared to individual, private contemplation, unable to convey the grandeur that was French culture. Gérôme’s painting is highly finished, each inch crisp, clear, and resolved, crafted with both élan and precision. We can imagine the artist’s intellect and skill but don’t want to see his gestures. That would be tacky.
L’Éminence Grise is an inspired choice, too, because of its subject, François Leclerc du Tremblay, a Capuchin friar and Cardinal Richelieu’s fixer and right-hand man. Richelieu was the power behind the throne of Louis XIII, so Tremblay possessed discrete, hidden power — much as the Salon’s jury did. It had overt power in selecting what was and wasn’t displayed, considered not only quality but politics and personalities, ruled with opacity, and rankled in its rejections. The jury’s selection process was rigged to favor older, successful artists, some also professors.
Also in the first gallery are Monet’s Boulevard des Capucines, from 1873, displayed in the Société show, a sparkling, fleeting view of a crowded, upscale city street where, in the spacious, luxurious studio of the photographer known as Nadar, the Société show happened. It’s dappling and fresh and a glass hive. It’s peak Impressionism.
Near it is Camille-Léopold Cabaillot-Lasalle’s La Salon de 1874, a view of a gallery in the official exhibition. That’s a clever choice, too. It shows us the Salon’s display strategy, which is mind-blowing abundance, and its well-heeled visitorship, social, attentive, and refined, no jeans, and shirtlessness and bare feet “prohibé.” And no pet-eating illegals allowed.
Praise the Lord and all the saints, and let’s toss the seraphim, the cherubim, and the Four Living Creatures in the mix, too. Nowhere in Paris 1874 do we wade through puddles of tears over white supremacy, settler colonialism, or the prison-industrial complex. The exhibition is straight art history. What a tonic.
There’s real trauma on one score, though, and this helps us understand the Impressionist phenomenon. The Prussian invasion and the Commune — Paris was sacked by revolutionaries, chunks of the city burned, and thousands died — unfolded in 1870 and 1871. The Haussmann demolition and reimagining of Paris had just happened. Promethean bounce-back is part of the miracle that’s human nature, but, in Paris, the will to make something new rather than to rehash the old seems to have been a powerful part of Impressionism’s DNA and an impetus for the Société.
The année terrible cut multiple ways. Artists hoping to pay the bills, much less thrive, believed that the Commune endangered careers because, being a communist movement, it would destroy the bourgeois, art-buying public. Degas, Giuseppe De Nittis, and Henri Rouart, all Société exhibitors, were from affluent backgrounds, but Monet, Cézanne, Sisley, Pissarro, and Boudin couldn’t afford to be too nonconformist. Many of the Société artists had fled Paris during the war and subsequent upheaval. New, impromptu studios and new settings were a creative jolt. Napoleon III was out in 1870. The Third Republic was in.
Questioning authority had cachet, but unhappiness with the Salon wasn’t new. Some was natural. Reject an artist — and Degas was rejected many times — and a new belligerent is born. Manet’s Déjeuner sur l’herbe was notoriously nixed by the Salon. Starting in 1863, artists whose work the Salon jury had rejected held a Salon des Refusés. And by 1873, artists such as Degas, Renoir, and Monet, whose work showed a freer, outdoorsy, more spontaneous character, saw the Salon’s jury system as a road to nowhere. For them, the Société offered the freedom to exhibit, which meant the freedom to market. The Société show would give no awards, which the Société’s members felt were warped by art-world politics.
Paris 1874 celebrates the eccentricity of the Société show, and it also explains it. Renoir’s The Dancer, whose skirt is like a puffy cloud, Sisley’s and Pissarro’s luminous, breezy landscapes, Boudin’s pastel cloud studies, Degas’s ballet dancers, and Monet’s work are iconic. They’re impressions, through their quick-take look and free handling of paint. There’s no moral message, though voyeurs would be pleased. Berthe Morisot’s bourgeois women at leisure and views of the new Paris are there, too, as well as the technology of a modern age. With a palette of gray-blue, ochre, and rose, Sisley’s Seine at Port-Marly has to be the prettiest water-pump station on Earth. Mundane and exurban, it supplied the water to irrigate Versailles’s gardens.
Then there are the oddball artists and objects. Auguste Ottin’s marble bust of Ingres is far removed from the avant-garde, but he was famous and had agreed to be the Société’s treasurer. Édouard Brandon painted scenes of Jewish life. Degas, his buddy, twisted his arm, not for aesthetic reasons but to boost the Société’s paying shareholders. Ludovic Lepic was another Degas friend. He was rich and influential and had a fondness for dogs, whose portraits in the Société show have to be its most counterintuitive works.
The location of the Société show — Nadar’s studio — was much calculated and symbolic. The pioneer of Paris portrait photography, Nadar was modern to the core and then some. An amateur balloonist, he organized mail delivery by hot-air balloon during the Commune blockade, inventing airmail. Nadar’s space was free, the biggest point in its favor, but the movers and shakers among the Société — mostly Degas — thought the neighborhood was in sync with their mission and spirit. It was the heart of the new Paris.
Nearby were Garnier’s new opera house; Le Printemps, the fancy department store; boutiques; the House of Worth; and the Bourse, Paris’s commodities exchange, though it hadn’t been rebuilt yet. Nadar’s space had skylights with adjustable blinds, an elevator, an interior fountain for gentle gurgles, and, in case of a hot spell, air-conditioning.
The walls, to the artists’ delight, were smoky red fabric, the floors were carpeted in red abstract flowers against a black field. Blues and greens in landscapes popped like firecrackers. Red is the color of passion and a good color for evening events meant to enliven and engage rather than sedate. It’s a good dining-room color, especially if dinner is by candlelight. Set against a red wall, Renoir’s The Theater Box got an extra jolt of drama. Unlike the Salon, the Société show wasn’t packed and stacked. Art had room to breathe.
Paris 1874 smartly avoids a black-and-white contrast between the Société and Salon exhibitions and debunks a good-versus-evil approach to them. Both shows, we see, were an eclectic affair. Manet’s The Railway, from 1873, was in the Salon show and, now, it’s in Paris 1874. It’s a scene of modern life, dab-packed, luminous, bright, and less narrative than anecdotal and serendipitous. Gérôme’s L’Éminence Grise is didactic. Manet’s picture stars a sassy, multi-blue bow, a sleeping puppy, a bunch of grapes, an iron grate, and puffs of steam. It’s as Impressionist as it gets. Zacharie Astruc, with 14 works in the Société show, many watercolors, was, like Gérôme, an Orientalist.
There are 45 or so works of art in Paris 1874 that were in that year’s Salon. This is a lot, and the old-versus-new point could have been made with far fewer. Still, I can’t begrudge a place in the sun for Bouguereau, Alma-Tadema, or Henri-Paul Motte, whose Trojan Horse was his Salon debut and a favorite of mine this week.
The first-rate catalogue is edited by Sylvie Patry from the Musée d’Orsay and Anne Robbins from the National Gallery. What’s becoming standard in museum catalogues now are lots of essayists — Paris 1874 has 15 — and short essays that are themselves either impressions and shallow or tangential tributes steered by the curators to their friends. Nothing of the sort here, since the essays, most a few pages, are still rich and satisfying, and, if the French practiced cronyism, at least the cronies delivered substance.
Anchor pictures such as Impression, Sunrise get an essay of their own. It’s too bad the National Gallery didn’t incorporate more of the gold nuggets in this essay into the gallery interpretation of Impression, Sunrise. The painting was placed in the introductory gallery, so it gets introductory messaging. In the book, we learn that the painting is a case study in Impressionism’s complexities and contradictions. Depicting Le Havre’s harbor, it’s lovely and quintessential, with wet-on-wet execution to make the colors blend, single, rapidly applied strokes, cool blue grays, passages of pink, streaks of yellow, and an orange-red sun. It’s morning in Le Havre, then one of France’s most polluted cities, so pretty it’ll kill you. Impressionism isn’t always parks, beaches, and gardens. An astrophysicist recently found, looking at the painting and weather records, that it was done on November 13, 1872. Many of the works by Pissarro, Sisley, and Renoir in the Société show were done around the same time, so what was first is up for grabs.
Paris 1874 isn’t a miniature survey of Impressionism. It does, though, review basic themes and dedicates spaces to modern life in public spaces and at home, suburban leisure, and landscape. I loved the section on the Parisienne, the chic, sophisticated young Paris woman who has managed to remain an icon through every phase of modernity. She’s lively, frank, elegant, and sometimes she’s a courtesan, but who cares? Renoir’s Parisian Girl from the Société exhibition might look like a bit of a simp, but her blue hat, blue dress, and blue gloves make the picture more a color and a craze than a portrait of a person. Indigo-mania reigned supreme in 1874.
Paris 1874 isn’t a miniature survey of Impressionism. It does, though, review basic themes and dedicates spaces to modern life in public spaces and at home, suburban leisure, and landscape. I loved the section on the Parisienne, the chic, sophisticated young Paris woman who has managed to remain an icon through every phase of modernity. She’s lively, frank, elegant, and sometimes she’s a courtesan, but who cares? Renoir’s Parisian Girl from the Société exhibition might look like a bit of a simp, but her blue hat, blue dress, and blue gloves make the picture more a color and a craze than a portrait of a person. Indigo-mania reigned supreme in 1874.
By the by, the Société show attracted only 3,500 visitors, a decimal point of a fraction of what the Salon got. Only four works of art sold. By the end of 1874, the Société dissolved. Word of mouth, though, was good, and critics were more positive than negative.
Patry, one of the curators of Paris 1874, wrote a good essay on whether or not the 1877 renegade exhibition really started the movement we call Impressionism. Only 18 artists exhibited so it was more focused, the idiosyncratic artists from the 1874 Société show were gone, and the look was more coherent. Monet, Degas, Cézanne, Renoir, Sisley, and Pissarro each displayed more than 20 paintings, so, for each artist, the show was a miniature solo survey.
In 1874, artists and critics were calling the style and technique of the intransigeants, the rebels — and, yes, the Impressionists — the new thing, for it wasn’t yet seen as a movement. In 1877, “Impressionism” entered French dictionaries. And Renoir’s Bal du moulin de la Galette was there. By then, each of the Impressionists was better known, more successful, and had committed collectors. The Salon still had a few more years to go but not many. In 1881, the French government stopped giving it money. By 1890, it was splitting into pieces. So was Impressionism, too, but the torch was passed."
www.nationalreview.com/2024/09/an-impressionism-150th-bir...
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