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Meet Hollywood Boulevard's biggest star attraction—Award Night Jem! The Academy Award season was approaching fast and the anticipation of the evening was felt by all as Jerrica and the Holograms gathered around the television set to watch the news report for “Best Actress” in a motion picture. After several minutes in, the nominees were announced and Jem was among a few who were nominated! Without delay, Jerrica and the Holograms leaped up in unison and couldn't regain control of their emotions as they cheered for their loving sister. The noteworthy news of her nomination traveled fast, prompting a highly publicized feature in Daily News Tribune, and Rock Scene Magazine, along with an appearance on the Harriet Horn show where she sat shoulder to shoulder with fellow nominees: Sigorny Reever, Meryl Saint and Geraldine Pathos. Harriet didn't waste one second firing up her grill to roast Jem on her acting abilities, and branded the Pop star as an unusual candidate for an Academy Award. Harriet then went on to claim that music suited her better than acting! Sigorny chimed in and actually complimented her acting skills, leaving the door wide open for Meryl to question Jem's studying credentials, for which Jem replied that she never studied formally and worked hard instead. Well, the grits hit the fan, when Geraldine lumped off of the couch and argued that Jem had the nerve to compete with actresses who have spent years at their craft! After Harriet caused a riff between Sigorny and Geraldine, the word came in from the producers that the entire airing of the show was the most watched broadcast of Ms. Horns career, and was also labeled the “Showdown of the Year” with Geraldine vs Jem. Content with the outcome of the night, Harriet closed the show with yet another successful roast. While on the set of her latest film, Jem received a telegram inviting herself and the Holograms to a party at French director François Trésor's mansion, in Beverly Hills. Kimber grew wide-eyed at the news, but Jem wasn't sure what to think considering her unfamiliarity with him. Still, she didn't want to pass up the opportunity to attend such a lavish soirée. Tinseltown's biggest and brightest descended on his 5,000 square front lawn, and also near the backyard pool, where most of the A-list actors stood around boasting about their latest accomplishments in film. Jem arrived on the arm of Rio, and Kimber was attached to Sean Harrison. The five entertainers were in heaven as they hobnobbed with the best of the best in the industry. Then François approached Jem from left field with an offer to appear in his new film. Flattered by his offer, Jem asked if he'd allow her to finish her prior commitment to Mr. Sands, but François declined and walked off in a fit of anger. Horrified by what occurred, but struck silly at the sight of Kimber and Sean sitting in the jacuzzi fully dressed and sipping wine, Jem decided to enjoy the remainder of her night and walked away with her beau. At just about a split sec later, Raya ran full throttle towards Jem and dragged her over to the pool where she witnessed François flouncing around with a group of news reporters who were attentive as he began lying and badmouthing her. It was Rio to the rescue, and the partygoers didn't waste time clearing a path as he walked over to the disgruntled director, picked him up and slammed him into the pool! Out of concern for François LIFE, Jem, secretly grinning at the altercation, grabbed Rio by the arm, and the two gladly walked away. In the weeks to come, Jem was hard at work on her Howard Sands production, and also found time to play bridesmaid to her younger sister, Kimber Benton. Unfortunately, the union between Kimber and Jeff was short-lived, and Jem—being the nobel sister that she is—stood by Kimber's side and dried her tears as she canceled her own wedding. After a chaotic week of events, Jem was finally prepared to screen her film, Starbright, at World Studios, and she invited a list of actors and entertainers to join her, including Hollywood's leading man, Flint Westwood. While standing in the entranceway of the theater room, Jem came face to face yet again with François Trésor and the two started up an argument regarding his reason for attending her premier. This time, Trésor rattled not only one cage, but TWO, as Rio and Flint, who were more than happy to defend Jem's honor, balled up their fists and growled for the miserable director to split or GET SPLIT! While inside, Jem walked on stage to present her film to an audience of fellow Academy members, but the atmosphere shifted, when an obsessed Trésor began slandering her name to an actress seated next to him, and got his sick thrills out of hooting and hollering through her introduction. Finally, the time had come for the 60th Annual Academy Awards and Jem was anxious, but she tried to hold it together while she waited outside on the steps of her mansion with her sisters. Kimber tried to ease the moment with a joke and it proved to work as Jem loosened up and giggled. Several feet away, a white limousine pulled up the driveway and parked at the doorstep. Eventually, the door swung open and out popped Rio, Anthony, an injured Sean...and Jeff Wright who was fresh off of his marriage to Kimber and was free to escort Aja and Raya to the ceremony. Jem and her entourage arrived to a sea of flashing lights, time-ticking cameras, and thousands of hyperactive fans all focused and taking notes on the appearance of her beautiful gown! The Goodyear airship scoped down on the star-studded event as Jem made her way up the red carpet with Rio happily glued to her hip. Inside, the show moved right along with multi-platinum recording artist Lena Lerner and her son Dominic presenting the category for “Makeup!” Kimber quickly grew impatient with the show, but promptly assured her sister that she's sure to win. Then Flint Westwood approached the podium to present the category for “Best Actress!” A hush fell over the room. Jem held her breath. Shana gripped Anthony's arm. Aja squeezed Raya's hand. And Kimber crossed her fingers as Flint read the nominees...only to discover that Jem didn't win! Disheartened by her loss to Geraldine Pathos, Jem lowered her head and applauded her foe as she sat paralyzed with sadness. While on stage to accept her award, the un-thinkable occurred, when Geraldine apologized to Jem in front of the world for her actions on the Harriet Horn show, and Jem was gracious enough to mouth the words “Thank You” to her adversary. She then raised one exquisite heel after the other and stepped forward to the powder room for a good cry with Kimber, along with several other Academy nominees. A minute later, outside in the lobby, Jem stood hand in hand with Rio and proceeded to exit the building...when suddenly, without warning, the consummate actress was approached by a member of the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce with news that she had earned her own celebrity star on Hollywood Boulevard! On that very day, it became clear to everyone that Hollywood Jem was eternal!
Integrity's Design Team has created, from one of my favorite episodes, “Hollywood Jem, Part Two”, an exquisitely unflawed gem that has now become a personal favorite of mine, and I am proud to grace my collection with her superstar presence! Award Night Jem actually started out as an ‘80s prototype doll, among a handful of other characters, but stalled early on before reaching the mass marketing stage. Personally, I regard both the prototype doll and the updated version as equitably attractive. Nevertheless, it's 2016, and we are celebrating the 30th anniversary of Starlight Music's reigning songstress. This goes without saying, but there's NOT ONE FLAW AVAILABLE to critique! Her larger-than-life tresses are the equivalent to pink cotton candy as it too looks deliciously appealing! This time around, Jem chose minimal assistance from Synergy, and after selecting the perfect gown for her special night, she opted for her sisters to glam her up. So, Raya began the styling process on her hair, primping, teasing and tousling ever so lightly, and ending with a precise sweep to the side. And then, Kimber simultaneously rolled out Jem's makeup from the “West End Girls” collection and started off with a light application of pink highlighter, in “Causing a Commotion”, to her brow bones. Raya returned and proceeded with a fair amount of light purple eyeshadow, in “Little Lies”, to cover Jem's lids and lower lash lines, and finished up with a wide oval-shaped wing of dark purple eyeshadow, in “New Sensation”, pressed into the creases of her eyelids. Eager to contribute to her sister's joyous celebration, Shana stepped in and brought it all together with a thick, sharp, black wing across Jem's eyelids with her “Breakout” eyeliner, and then drew a heavy line on her lash lines and smudge it in oh so well! The end result perfectly showcases a strong allure that's guaranteed to captivate the inner soul of any man who stands before her. But there's really no need for Rio to concern himself with losing his glittering prize to another man because Jem's got eyes only for him! Aja took over and applied an even amount of “Paisley Park” lipstick and a few coats of “Perpetually Pink” lipgloss to wet her luscious, award-winning smile. She completed her work with a quick manicure of “Blossomed Petals” nail polish that's identical to the color of her gown, finally perfecting the touches needed for this momentous evening! And while I'm on the subject of her elegant gown, I have no damn choice but to declare the one-piece, rippling garment AN INCOMPARABLE MASTERPIECE! The structure is very impressive and spins my mind into overdrive every time I look at it! I mean, c'mon now, Jem became a Hollywood Walk of Fame recipient the same night while wearing it, so that only adds further sedimental value than originally intended. As she stands before a horde of shutterbugs, Jem shows off the details of this pink glamorous creation by running her fingers across the deep set of ruffles and widespread collar. She then swipes her index finger along the low-cut v-shaped collar of the gold bodice and shows off her thin gold belt with its fuchsia feather. Moving lower, she raises the floral-shaped bottom of her dress up to her knees while exposing her glittery light pink stockings for the paparazzi to immortalize on camera! Jem enjoys tantalizing the press by flashing her million dollar smile while playfully clapping her pink designer heels together as though she's experiencing a dream. There's a particular material used for these amazing heels and I'm not exactly sure what kind. However, I do know that I am crushing HARD on the style and color! I am also taken aback by the craftsmanship to her gold, star-shaped neck clasp. There's only one woman in the WORLD who could model a dress that's unlike any other around—in this case, a dress that's as beautiful as herself—and STILL stand out in a crowd of thousands as the most glamorous human being in attendance, and that is Jem!
I must pay my respects to the Design Team at Integrity Toys for this beautiful gift of art! You can clearly see the level of talent that went into designing this doll and it shows all over, from side to side, front to back, up, down and all around. To be perfectly honest, I am not concerned with rating/comparing her with previous or additional variations because I've now received this version here and she is hands down my favorite! 💐💝
This will be a tiny true story in a few minutes. I have to write it. It is going to have a sadder note than most of my stories, kind of a 2 or 3 hankie story, you might say. So, if you don't like any pathos in your stories, then stop right here. The picture right before this will have the same story, but I will only submit one of these photo/stories to the various groups that like them.
The little girl on the guardrail represents me as a child. There are a few problems with her. One is I didn't have brown hair at the age of 5 or 6. I was blonde until age 9 or 10. Two is that my eyes are blue, and hers are not.. Three is that I didn't wear my hair in pigtails. Four is that I was tall, but not that tall. You might be asking yourself, "Self, then why on Earth do you think that represents you?" Well, she looks very sweet, as I did. She has rosy pink cheeks and a cute little smile, as I also did.. She likes bridges as I did from a very young age. She looks very innocent. The main thing that helps her represent me as a little girl is her white blouse and red plaid skirt, which will be the main thing in my story, if you can endure the next 3 or 4 paragraphs first.
I knew my mother didn't touch me very often, but I didn't realize how bereft she was of warmth, giving and receiving hugs and so on until all these years later. Various bouts of poison oak I had were savage. I knew she had tried to prick each horrible blister of poison oak, not getting them all, but trying. She would then apply Calamine Lotion with little cotton Coty brand pads. She still didn't touch me, but she ministered to me. That was when I was 5 or 6. Later when I was 8, 9 and 10 and got other cases of infected Poison Oak, could barely see out of one eye, and my other eye was closed, she did not administer anything at all. She and my Dad left for work 25 miles away. They got home that evening and my mouth was swollen closed all but the tiniest amount. My parents heated Campbell's Vegetable Beef Soup for me, and put it in a Waring Blender so I could manage to drink it through a straw. I shall not forget that. It was warm and comforting and tasted pretty good.
I had thought for most of my life that at least my mother must have held me and caressed me, bathed me, etc., when I was a baby and toddler. No, she held my hand a few times when we walked somewhere, but the family maid, Mildred, took care of me when I was a baby to age 3. After about age 3 and a half, I was left alone with 2 older brothers that my mother was fond of saying had hated me from the day I was born. The pictures of me with my mother show her positioning herself with my brothers, rather than me, or touching me but not close. When I had my own children she sort of held them out from her body, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do with them, or as if she felt they might infect her with something. .
Several times when she wanted me to look nice because company was coming, she curled my hair with a curling iron. She, herself, did not actually touch me. The curling iron surely did. It was so hot, and it burned my scalp. I don't believe she was trying to burn me, but she surely did. I would say "Ow" many times. Each time, she'd say "Sorry" but then she would do it again. I did look nice afterward, and have a picture of myself on our patio with my nice dress, Mary Janes (shoes) and my hard-won curls. There were no hugs.
Bath time involved her running the water and me getting in, and then her tossing about a cup of Tide detergent, the large chunky powdered kind, in the water. It didn't dissolve easily either. Very rough on children's skin! Then she left the room. There were other times when she was pretty cold, but they are not the reason for my story. I'm only telling about some of them; so that the one time she was very tender and warm will stand out for me and my readers as a banner moment in my childhood. I'm close to 70 now, and don't kid yourself, your childhood memories, impressions, etc. stay with you. At least mine did and do.
You probably thought I'd never tie this altogether, but I'm going to. There is one time, a time I cherish, that my mother, though not consciously trying to, was warm. What she was doing was so I would "look nice" for appearances at kindergarten or first grade, not because she had decided I needed some affection. I had on my little red plaid skirt with straps and a white blouse. My white blouse was rather carelessly tucked in, which made it look wrinkled. My mother reached up under my skirt and pulled my white blouse downward until it looked very smooth around my waist. To accomplish this maneuver, she sort of "walked" her hands around my tummy, tugging gently on my blouse until it looked neat as could be. Her hands were warm and gentle, so much so that I wished I could pull some of my blouse back out again; so she would gently tug, tuck and pat again. That's it! That's the whole story of why I like this big dolly with all her innocence, and her blouse that occasionally needs to be tucked in.
THE END
P. S. Most people that see her on the bridge, smile and wave. One lady even rolled her window down and wanted to know if I made her.
(IMGP1385MePengraCoveredBridgerealismearlyDAPrealismoilME-flickr042317)
again - with pathos
Please : Right Click and select "Open link in new tab"
www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-pWSHTQOFs
love will tear us apart again - june tabor
That's the amazing thing about any of the arts . . . you can "see" the naked soul of the artist/performer. I think any of the arts are "visual" as the humour and pathos is always revealed in some way.
I'll write the true story part about why I have had and loved this table for close to 40 years, but right now, the rain has slowed down a bit and I have some pictures to go shoot. This is for the "Our Daily Challenge" group subject of "Tables". The story part is not required, but it is true and I think you'll like it.
Hi Dave, for the Soul of the photo, I think the soul is this little table with such pathos, love & charm attached to it's history.
OK, it is 8:27 P. M. Pacific Coast Time here in Oregon, USA and if you hold your ears up close to your monitor you might hear me typing up my story. I'm starting it, and my stories are usually pretty short. It shouldn't be too long now.
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This table is warped pretty badly, and it has been moved so many times, the thin legs are wobbly, but it has a rather sad, but also romantic and charming history. Not quite 40 years ago, my children and I moved to Baker Bay at Dorena, Oregon. A gorgeous lake/dam had been made there, but flooding over parts of what was left of Dorena. My kids rode a school bus around the lake and many more miles to their respective schools. I met the parents of one of my daughter's first or second grade classmates. Rachel (I'm pretty sure her name was) came on a bus from a different direction, but Rachel and my daughter became friends. There was a baby either just recently born or on the way soon. I don't recall the baby's name. The parents were Bill and Pat Love (fitting surname for this story).
The Love family had meager means with which to live, but they were resourceful. Bill got scrap lumber (thus the table) from Weyerhaeuser Lumber and built their furniture for their little cabin up the river and on gorgeous Brice Creek. They painted rocks and sold them at some sort of craft fair in Cottage Grove, Oregon. Pat nursed their baby so no cost for formula. They had a used van, and the family treat once a month was to go into Eugene, Oregon (I believe over 80 to 90 mile round trip) and watch some sort of family matinee. I recall their allotment was $25.00 for this entertainment. I should know the mileage more precisely because later on I ended up making the trip many times, but it has been a long time.
I didn't know the Loves well, but what I did know of them was very nice. They were genuine and kind. I think it was 17 miles from my place to theirs but Rachel and my daughter meeting almost in the middle for school. Bill was American. I think his family may have been from the Vallejo, California area, not sure. Pat was Irish. I guess he met her over there. I don't know the details of their meeting. They married, and Bill promised her if she didn't like country living in Oregon, USA that he would take her and their children back to Ireland.
So he built other furniture too, a cool bed, and a bookshelf-desk combination that covered a good portion of their bedroom wall. He built a chicken coop, and so they had eggs cheaply. They had a darling and homey 2 bedroom cabin, with spring-fed water. It had a porch around a good part of the cabin and some property and fruit trees. It was absolutely beautiful there. It bordered Brice Creek, a whitewater beauty. It was romantic and scenic, and charming. They had a gorgeous purebred Irish Setter.
One night Brice Creek flooded. The cabin was built up I'm guessing maybe 8 feet from a dirt floor semi-open basement to the wooden floors of the actual cabin. Huge boulders were tossed by the flood waters up toward the cabin. Bill spent 8 hours (I'm pretty sure he said) pacing on the porch, not knowing where or when his family should try to get away, and where on earth they would go. The scenic paradise had become terrifying and treacherous. The chicken coop was flooded completely away, probably down toward Dorena Lake where I lived. I guess you could say their dreams sort of flooded away too.
Bill managed to rent some sort of backhoe (I wasn't there; so I don't know all the details) and build somewhat of a retaining wall with some of the boulders by moving them back toward the edge of the creek. He managed to build a fairly good barrier. He was a large man and apparently a very good worker, but their idyllic life had been badly blemished and threatened. They were both nervous. Pat told Bill she wanted them all to go live in Ireland. True to his promise, Bill said they would go as a family to Ireland.
There were some summer months left, where no one was worried about the creek flooding, and Bill and Pat approached me with the idea of renting their cabin from them. I guess until they could sell it, or until a relative could come up and remove some of their personal effects. Not sure. It was an even longer drive for me, for groceries and gasoline and entertainment, etc., but it truly was a beautiful spot. Brice Creek didn't normally flood there, and it was heavenly. I had encountered some problems anyway, at the place I rented at Baker Bay; so they talked me into it. Thus I became the proud owner of several pieces of economically homemade furniture, still stamped on the undersides with Weyerhaeuser. Now I believe almost 40 years later that company was bought out or absorbed by International Paper in Springfield, Oregon. I don't know the details or the exact year it happened.
I also became the proud owner of the best dog I ever had, Reilly, a purebred Irish Setter. Reilly was kind of deal-clincher.
My two favorite pieces of furniture that Bill built were the bedroom ones. Unfortunately, at least as far as keeping them, I ended up moving back into Eugene, and getting married. My new husband had all the furniture we needed; so those two pieces got sold. The little table you see in the picture could and did frequently go outside; so I still have it, after many moves and life changes.
When I look at that little table, I don't really dwell of on its faults. I can't even count all the times I've moved it and put it to different uses. I see the story of a loving family, a man who kept his promises, and the charm of the whole tale. Their surname of Love is perfect. I'm forever grateful for the short but enchanting time I got to spend in the cabin on Brice Creek in Disston, Oregon.
THE END
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On reflection, I am going to make about 2 corrections in my story. I believe my daughter and the Love's daughter were in first or second grade, not kindergarten. Also the total distance from Cottage Grove up to the place my children and I had on Baker Bay was probably about 10 miles. The total from Cottage Grove to Disston was about 27 miles; so for me to move up to Disston from Baker Bay would have been an additional 17 miles from Baker Bay, not an additional 27 miles. At any rate, it was really out in the boonies.
(20190915_155115WarpedWobblyDisstontableflickr091519)
a work in progress...from a dream that must have been inspired from a wedding I had been a part of a few years back....or maybe Not!
lot of craziness in this dream, eh!!
ha ha.
- by Diane M Kramer
aka She Wolf
www.flickr.com/photos/25386365@N06/with/8247918696/lightbox/ views nicely here
Midtown Manhattan, as seen from One World Observatory, which is the lookout point on top of the reconstructed One World Trade Center. Tough overloaded with patriotic pathos, it's certainly one of the most spectacular views in the world.
Supposed "old seer”, Figure N of the pediment’s reconstruction scheme proposed by Säflund.
With his potbelly, sagging flesh, balding head, puffy eyes, lined forehead, and dramatic gesture of bringing his clenched fist to his cheek, character N has long been recognized as a masterpiece of Early Classical sculpture, the epitome of the period's concern with pathos, its interest in the depiction of youth and age, and its exploration of consciousness.
According to the proposed reconstruction, the old man reclines on the ground behind Pelopos’ chariot and he brings his right hand to his chin supporting his weight with a staff held in his left hand (the lost staff was presumably of bronze): his gesture a sign of grief at the inevitable death of the Oinomaos.
His identifications made over the years have included Myrtilos, a groom (an identification made also by Pausanias), a local deity, Kronos, the paedagogus of Pelops, Killas, and Hellanodica. Interpreting his hand-to-cheek gesture as a sign that he is merely listening to what Oinomaos is saying rather than as a sign of anxiety, dejection, or prophetic gloom, some scholars think he is simply an aged spectator, a representative of the older generation. This identification seems to overlook the anxiety conveyed by the lined forehead - the lines are surely signs of pathos rather than mere wrinkles. This character seems to know and fear something the others do not, and it may not be accident that he seems to have stared directly at the (rigged) wheels and axle of Oinomaos' chariot. For this and other reasons, the majority of scholars have believed N to be a seer. And, if that is what this character is, then this man of foreknowledge and foreboding would neatly bracket virtually the entire pedimental composition, and so personify the inevitability and closure of fate and the dike of Zeus. There will be no escape for Oinomaos - and none for Pelops and his descendants.
Source: Jeffrey M. Hurwit, “Narrative Resonance in the East Pediment of the Temple of Zeus at Olympia”
Marble Statuary group
ca. 470 - 457 BC
Olympia, Archaeological Museum
Actaeon in Greek mythology, son of the priestly herdsman Aristaeus and Autonoe in Boeotia, was a famous Theban hero. Like Achilles in a later generation, he was trained by the centaur Chiron.
He fell to the fatal wrath of Artemis, but the surviving details of his transgression vary: "the only certainty is in what Aktaion suffered, his pathos, and what Artemis did: the hunter became the hunted; he was transformed into a stag, and his raging hounds, struck with a 'wolf's frenzy' (Lyssa), tore him apart as they would a stag." This is the iconic motif by which Actaeon is recognized, both in ancient art and in Renaissance and post-Renaissance depictions.
Among others, John Heath has observed, "The unalterable kernel of the tale was a hunter's transformation into a deer and his death in the jaws of his hunting dogs. But authors were free to suggest different motives for his death." In the version that was offered by the Hellenistic poet Callimachus, which has become the standard setting, Artemis was bathing in the woods when the hunter Actaeon stumbled across her, thus seeing her naked. He stopped and stared, amazed at her ravishing beauty. Once seen, Artemis got revenge on Actaeon: she forbade him speech — if he tried to speak, he would be changed into a stag — for the unlucky profanation of her virginity's mystery. Upon hearing the call of his hunting party, he cried out to them and immediately transformed. At this he fled deep into the woods, and doing so he came upon a pond and, seeing his reflection, groaned. His own hounds then turned upon him and pursued him, not recognizing him. In an endeavour to save himself, he raised his eyes (and would have raised his arms, had he had them) toward Mount Olympus. The gods did not heed his plea, and he was torn to pieces. An element of the earlier myth made Actaeon the familiar hunting companion of Artemis, no stranger. In an embroidered extension of the myth, the hounds were so upset with their master's death, that Chiron made a statue so lifelike that the hounds thought it was Actaeon.
There are various other versions of his transgression: The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women and pseudo-Apollodoran Bibliotheke state that his offense was that he was a rival of Zeus for Semele, his mother's sister, whereas in Euripides' Bacchae he has boasted that he is a better hunter than Artemis:
ὁρᾷς τὸν Ἀκτέωνος ἄθλιον μόρον,
ὃν ὠμόσιτοι σκύλακες ἃς ἐθρέψατο
διεσπάσαντο, κρείσσον' ἐν κυναγίαις
Ἀρτέμιδος εἶναι κομπάσαντ', ἐν ὀργάσιν.
Look at Actaeon's wretched fate
who by the man-eating hounds he had raised,
was torn apart, better at hunting
than Artemis he had boasted to be, in the meadows.
In François Clouet's Bath of Diana (1558-59) Actaeon's passing on horseback at left and mauling as a stag at right is incidental to the three female nudes.
Further materials, including fragments that belong with the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women and at least four Attic tragedies, including a Toxotides of Aeschylus, have been lost. Diodorus Siculus (4.81.4), in a variant of Actaeon's hubris that has been largely ignored, has it that Actaeon wanted to marry Artemis. Other authors say the hounds were Artemis' own; some lost elaborations of the myth seem to have given them all names and narrated their wanderings after his loss.
According to the Latin version of the story told by the Roman Ovid having accidentally seen Diana (Artemis) on Mount Cithaeron while she was bathing, he was changed by her into a stag, and pursued and killed by his fifty hounds. This version also appears in Callimachus' Fifth Hymn, as a mythical parallel to the blinding of Tiresias after he sees Athena bathing. The literary testimony of Actaeon's myth is largely lost, but Lamar Ronald Lacy, deconstructing the myth elements in what survives and supplementing it by iconographic evidence in late vase-painting, made a plausible reconstruction of an ancient Actaeon myth that Greek poets may have inherited and subjected to expansion and dismemberment. His reconstruction opposes a too-pat consensus that has an archaic Actaeon aspiring to Semele, a classical Actaeon boasting of his hunting prowess and a Hellenistic Actaeon glimpsing Artemis' bath. Lacy identifies the site of Actaeon's transgression as a spring sacred to Artemis at Plataea where Actaeon was a hero archegetes ("hero-founder"). The righteous hunter, the companion of Artemis, seeing her bathing naked in the spring, was moved to try to make himself her consort, as Diodorus Siculus noted, and was punished, in part for transgressing the hunter's "ritually enforced deference to Artemis" (Lacy 1990:42). (Wikipedia).
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See also the album: www.albelli.nl/onlinefotoboek-bekijken/3af1427e-1eae-4620...
813 Mil Mi-35P Hind-F/ Panther (023364) Cyprus Air Force -
Andreas Papandreou Airbase , Pathos International Airport Cyprus 08-11-2019
Appearing at first like abstract forms, reminiscent perhaps of the classic work of Brancusi or Hepworth, Fiona Banner’s five sculptures are scattered around the big public plaza on the riverfront by Tower Bridge. Mysteriously titled Slipstream, Optical, Courier, Klang and Nuptial, the precarious balance and glistening black of these leaning ellipses, imposing spheres and strange cross shapes intrigue and invite closer inspection.
Each form is an accurate three-dimensional albeit vastly enlarged version of a full stop from a variety of commonly used typefaces which lend their names as titles for the sculptures. Though each is proportionate to the others, their expanded scale reveals anomalies latent within an apparently universal and uniform symbol. Like the complexity and beauty of form which unfold only when observed through a microscope, what appears as a miniscule black dot on paper here reveals its intricate and unexpected shape.
If these sculptures are full stops, then we, walking amongst them and the buildings that frame them, become like the missing letters and words of a sentence. Banner gives us in solid form the pause, the silence, the moment we draw breath and reflect. The full stop is both a beginning as well as an end.
Banner’s fascination with the full stop as sign and symbol started in 1997 with a small blue neon work. The following year she created a series of ephemeral white polystyrene full stops (which were shown at the Tate) before she experimented with monumental sizes in bronze for the More London site. The entire body of work is a logical expansion of Banner’s enduring preoccupation with notions of language and text, whether in sound works, drawings or sculptures: ‘…a lot of my earlier work is about how things are expressed or can become manifest through words – how you can visualise passages of time through language.’
Banner first came to national and international attention with her ‘wordscapes’, vast wall-mounted accounts, handwritten, typeset or stencilled on canvas or sheets of paper pasted directly onto a wall?, of iconic films retold obsessively, scene by scene in Banner’s own words. Using a panoramic format that seems to mimic the cinema screen Banner translates actions into words, attempting to find an equivalent in language for the absent image. Deliberately hindering easy legibility her relentlessly long lines, unbroken by paragraphs or chapters, turn into an almost impenetrably solid abstract block. Taking classic films like Lawrence of Arabia, French Connection or Apocalypse Now, as well as, more recently, porno-movies as her source material, Banner’s transcriptions are always dead-pan and seemingly objective. In each case, whether action movie or porno flick, the language she deploys is of the kind spoken in the film, avoiding any personal viewpoint or commentary. Banner described her approach: ‘It’s an attempt at a very fair account of exceedingly biased subject matter. The whole notion of how things purport to be objective, or how one chooses to interpret fictive things as fact, was a starting point for that project.’2 At the same time, the wordscapes seem to be an experiment about the limits of language, about what is beyond the text and ultimately cannot be said.
Perhaps it was on the basis of this understanding that following the wordscapes, Banner started to make large-scale graphite drawings of full stops, which in turn led to her three-dimensional sculptures. In the drawings, the densely drawn punctuation marks function as both abstract image and black hole.
For the plaza by City Hall, Fiona Banner chose five different type-fonts from her large repertoire that seemed to work particularly well with the surrounding architecture and landscaping. Varying in scale from ….m (Courier) to 3m (Optical) they shift from the intimate to the monumental. The final placing of the Full Stops was only decided after much deliberation, and following a test installation on site with full scale polystyrene models.
All five Full Stops share a particularly tactile surface texture which reveals the process by which they were made. The artist first shaped their form in plaster before they were cast in bronze. Each displays the uneven marks of plaster worked by the artist’s hand. After casting the forms were coated in shiny black paint (the same appropriately, as that of London taxis), giving a highly reflective surface to mirror surrounding buildings and reflect light and water.
Whether nestling amongst trees, by a bench, or fountains, these apparently random works are instantly recognisable as part of the same series. Like a sentence from which the words have been removed, the Full Stops are playful in character, and yet full of pathos. When long shadows double their form on sunny days, their monolithic and almost totemic quality is even further enhanced.
"Make a picture that is funny and sad at the same time. A photograph that simultaneously evokes pathos, irony and humour." - Jeff Mermelstein spn 46
Pathos, emotional involvement, passionate participation, is part of the religious existence. The utterances of the psalmist are charged with emotion, are outpourings of emotion. Reading the prophets we are stirred by their passion and enlivened imagination. Their primary aim is to move the soul, to engage the attention by bold and striking images, and therefore it is to the imagination and the passions that the prophets speak, rather than aiming at the cooled approbation of the mind.
-Abraham Joshua Heschel, The Prophets, The Philosophy of Pathos, pg. 38
"Make a picture that is funny and sad at the same time. A photograph that simultaneously evokes pathos, irony and humour." - Jeff Mermelstein
Véxoo non demasiado lonxe, véxoo demasiado preto, véxoo dende onte e véxoo demasiado cedo.
Paraíso extinguido, xardín das delicias esquecidas, exército do que non queda ninguén vivo, muros derribados por un puñado de vidas.
Deixa que arda ata os alicerces, que non queden nin as lembranzas, que non vexa de novo este espellismo, que todo antes ou despois remata.
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I see it not to far away, I see it too close, I see it since yesterday and I see it too soon.
Extinguished paradise, garden of forgotten delights, army in which nobody remains alive, crumbled walls for a fistful of lives.
Let it burn to the ground, may not even memories remain, may I not see this mirage again, since everything ends sooner or later.
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Lo veo no demasiado lejos, lo veo demasiado cerca, lo veo desde ayer y lo veo demasiado pronto.
Paraíso extinguido, jardín de las delicias olvidadas, ejército del que no queda nadie vivo, muros derribados por un puñado de vidas.
Deja que arda hasta los cimientos, que no queden ni los recuerdos, que no vea de nuevo este espejismo, que todo antes o después acaba.
un filo di collegamento che parte:
- Dall’articolo sulla nascita del tempo e dell’ordine dell’universo (secondo autorevoli teorie troppo preciso per non avere una ragione), articolo che ho letto a Giacomo l’altra sera da “Internazionale", capendoci razionalmente molto molto poco entrambi…
ai 13 minuti di Ezio Bosso andati in onda ieri al festivàl di San Remo (che non ho visto se non qualche minuto fa sui rai.tv dopo aver letto, nuovamente commosso, il Buongiorno di Gramellini sulla Stampa di questa mattina)
- Dai pensieri della mia ultima ora di corsa in cui, passando accanto alla barca “Aquila Marina" ho ricordato, (non so il motivo ma sicuramente con tenerezza), quando nel 2007, in piena crisi esistenziale dopo la nascita di Giacomino, decisi di ritagliarmi un pomeriggio a settimana libero dagli impegni lavorativi, credendo di aver così placato qualcosa a cui, ieri come oggi, non riesco a dare un nome e che non è solo "tempo libero”, concetto inesistente sgretolato alla prima telefonata che fu, o alla prima preoccupazione emersa in un orario da me precostituito come di “pausa”...
al fascino con cui subisco le favole (perché così tali le recepisco) sulle stelle, il cielo e i moti a me incomprensibili.
- Dal sorriso di una persona anziana, nelle cui pieghe percepisco qualcosa che mi commuove e che forse mi svela solo concetto del “tempo"
al fatto che già a 36 anni non possa guardare le foto di 4 anni fa senza che mi parta un processo - benché lieve e lontano ma altrettanto chiaro - di commozione
- Dal pathos con cui vivo la nascosta scintilla impazzita che mi trasmette in presa diretta all’emozione e che percepisco avere con un approccio di carattere religioso, una religione senza esseri ma in cui, mai come oggi, riconosco evidente il segno o forse il bisogno.
alle canzoni di de gregori, cui non ho mai precisamente intercettato il senso razionale ma che mi toccano, eccome, al pari di Lucio, e di tante altre poesie e riflessioni.
- Dallo struggimento di tutti i miei viaggi mancati, le cose non fatte, le occasioni perse
allo struggimento di essere una persona non sempre all’altezza di quella che penso di essere, del non vivere sempre appieno, sprecare, diluire.
Un filo
un filo che descrive qualcosa di cui ho interesse prioritario, perché abbraccia, senza bisogno di spiegazione, semplicemente tutto ciò che mi fa battere il cuore, e mette in fila la mia anima, Sara, la libertà, la Famiglia, la fotografia (benché sopita), i viaggi, il passato, la riflessione, il tempo, la morte, le stelle, l’amore, un nuovo profumo,
un nuovo profumo... come quello che due domenica fa aprendo un frigorifero samsung dentro Euronics per vedere come fosse dentro - ero solo - , mi ha fatto piombare nel 2004, quando aprii per la prima volta il mio primo frigorifero della nostra prima casetta, ancora caldo perché spento. Come una finestra temporale, sono tornato indietro ed è scattato di nuovo quel principio che fa emergere… il pizzicore al naso.
Insomma va così… e avrei voluto essere più chiaro e ricominciare con qualcosa di più... ma no.
Forse cambiamo casa. Ma avremo tempo per parlarne.
Insomma, anche se non si è capito nulla… io ho necessità di questo.
E ora sono più felice di prima, per questo appuntamento che ho prima con me stesso, e poi qui. Perché ho interesse di ciò che, per dirla con le semplici parole dalle quali il mondo ha poi riconosciuto una poesia o il senso di tante cose... l’essenziale è invisibile agli occhi.
Ma come si possa avere interesse di qualcosa a cui non si riesce neanche a dare il nome, sfugge dal mio senso… e pertanto restituisce quel senso.
un filo di collegamento
un filo di collegamento che parte … e arriva, ad esempio oggi a Franci.
Anche se forse sembra chiara, garantisco che è lui…
perché la novità è che ho anche scattato nuovamente foto!!!! :) :) :)
Si tratta di un'opera composta da sette figure a grandezza naturale in terracotta con tracce di policromia. L'anno di realizzazione dell'opera e l'identità di chi la commissionò sono avvolti nel mistero, così come l'esatta disposizione delle statue. Le ipotesi di datazione più accreditate oscillano tra il1463 e il 1490. Al centro sta il Cristo morto, disteso con la testa reclinata su un cuscino. Attorno si dispongono le altre figure, tra le quali spiccano le due Marie, Maria di Cleofa e ai piedi del Cristo, Maria Maddalena, straziate dal dolore con le vesti gonfiate dal vento. Più composte sono le altre figure, anche se i loro volti mostrano una dolorosa partecipazione. Si riconoscono poi la Madonna, con le mani giunte, Maria di Giuseppe (madre di Giacomo il Maggiore e Giovanni l'Evangelista) seguiva Gesù come discepola, che stringe le cosce in un gesto di rammarico, mentre san Giovanni è rappresentato in un silenzioso pianto, con un palmo che regge il mento. Staccata dagli altri è una figura inginocchiata in abiti rinascimentali, generalmente collocata a sinistra, che rappresenta Giuseppe D'Arimatea e che guarda verso l'osservatore. It is a work composed of seven life-size figures in terracotta with traces of polychrome. The year of realization of the work and the identity who commissioned it are wrapped in mystery, as well as the exact arrangement of the statues. The most credible dating hypotheses oscillate between 1463 and 1490. At the center is the dead Christ, lying with his head reclining on a pillow. Around the other figures are arranged, among which stand out the two Marie, Mary of Cleophas and at the feet of Christ, Mary Magdalene, torn by grief with clothes swelled by the wind. The other figures are more composed, even if their faces show a painful participation. Then we recognize the Madonna, with folded hands, Mary of Joseph (mother of James the Greater and John the Evangelist) followed Jesus as a disciple, who tightens her thighs in a gesture of regret, while Saint John is represented in a silent cry , with a palm that supports the chin. Detached from the others is a figure kneeling in renaissance clothes, generally placed on the left, which represents Giuseppe D'Arimatea looks towards the observer. www.wikipedia
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I am starting a new series of images which are digital paintings of my travel photos. I will keep adding to this collection over time. I hope you like them.
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I used to live in San Francisco many years ago, but I never really took advantage of it. I mainly spent my time working and planning my next prank on a particularly patient flat mate*, so I never got out to see the many unique sights around the city. I happened to live a block from Grace Cathedral so it was only because I walked by it each day on my way to work that I even noticed it. This was my little sanctuary away from the craziness of city life and I would spend hours there looking up at the impossibly high ceiling, stained glass windows, medieval architecture and intricately carved labyrinths. That may not sound too exciting but it beats driving around the city for hours in search of a parking spot.
* The poor flat mate was a nice software engineer from Hawaii. He would bring home these little cupcakes and put them in the fridge and late at night I would get hungry and slice the tops off of all of them and enjoy them with some milk. The next day he would find the leftover stumps ... hehe.
From humour (yesterday) to pathos. I can't preach about this because I'm not 100% "pure" - from time to time I fall off the wagon, usually when I get invited somewhere. Although if offered a veggie burger alternative to cow parts, I will opt for the veggie burger.
Photographed near Simpson, Saskatchewan. Don't use this image on websites, blogs, or other media without explicit permission © 2016 James R. Page - all rights reserved.
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The North Carolina Museum of Art has a large display of sculptures of French artist Auguste Rodin (1840-1917). This is my favorite. When I was there, the late afternoon sun coming in made every photo almost impossible. Neither the color nor the black and white convey the full impact of this masterful depiction of anguish. I never realized how much emotion can be conveyed in bronze. This viewing experience has enhanced appreciation of sculpture in general and of Rodin in specific.
Edward III, King of England, claimed authority over France at that time. In 1346 he began an 11-month siege of the port city of Calais in an early battle in the Hundred Years’ War. Unable to take the city by attack, Edward decided to starve the city into submission. His plan succeeded. He would spare the lives of the citizens of Calais if six of its prominent leaders would come to his encampment; they would be barefoot and without headwear, nooses around their neck, and hand over the keys to the city and beg for mercy. Six burghers ultimately volunteered in this act of selfless heroism. They expected to be executed but were saved through the intervention of England’s pregnant queen, Philippa of Hainault. She feared the killing of the burghers would be a bad omen for the birth of her child. Pierre de Wissant is one of those six burghers.
To honor this act of self-sacrifice, the city of Calais commissioned Rodin in 1885 to execute a monument. His finished work was The Burghers of Calais (Les Bourgeois de Calais). Rodin used the head of Pierre de Wissant alone in a larger-than life sculpture. The modeling of the head was done in 1884-1885 and enlarged in 1909. The figure in the North Carolina Museum of Art was cast in 1980 by the Musée Rodin.
The bust shows Pierre de Wissant with parted lips, eyes nearly shut, head leaning slightly to the side, and an elongated neck—all features contributing to the pathos of the situation of self-denial and sacrifice. His features reveal the emaciation resulting from the effort to starve out the city. His decision shows in the facial agony to sacrifice his life for his fellow citizens. Rodin remarkably creates a human being in flesh and blood using only bronze.
See also www.flickr.com/photos/universalpops/5714783308/ and www.flickr.com/photos/universalpops/5714221433/
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