Fall Poetry:McEntyre

See how she turns to greet what comes,
surprised but untroubled, not quite
welcoming.  She looks askance
at one who has, unmasking, disturbed her
solitude.  Her greeting concedes what it must,
but she remains turned to purpose of her own.

This, too, she will turn to her purposes,
an encounter she expected, not knowing
just when, or what she should expect.
She has kept her own counsel;
It will serve her now.

Breeding has taught her that all-bearing look.
Poised to take what comes, she receives
with grace, gives back what befits
her modesty and station.

Cordelia would have done no more.

Richly presentable in linen and pearls,
wrapped in a light that fits her like her scarves,
she rises to the occasion, self-possessed,
accustomed to possession,
relinquishing solitude with dignity,
who will not be forced,
neither eager not reluctant,
not defensive, not submissive,
willing to speak her "Fiat mihi"
In her own time.

Marilyn Chandler McEntyre

Ten Things


After listening to a speech given at a recent tea party rally, I have distilled the message into ten words.  The heart of the message is a prescription for saving not just America but freedom - both political and religious.

1)   Believe
2)   Act
3)   Pray
4)   Discern
5)   Support
6)   Vote
7)   Join
8)   Subscribe
9)   Testify
10) Persevere






I plan to write a vignette about each of these action words.

In the meantime, let's examine the landscape and renew our commitment to culture.

The following quote is from one of my college professors, Russell Kirk.  The garden metaphor gives me more direction and is a huge encouragement.

A culture is perennially in need of renewal.

A culture does not survive and prosper merely by being taken for granted; active defense is always required, and imaginative growth, too.

Everyone is involved.
This is a link to an artist who supports the cause.

Whether you like it or not.

Whether you acknowledge it or not.

Be a force for Good.
This is a link to a expositional sermon on Psalm 111 where the LORD is praised for His Goodness.

Make sure it lasts.
This is a link to an essay about Steve Jobs who died this past week.

Imagination & Art:Neun Gute Helden

Nine statues grace the old city hall building (south side-link see last paragraph) in Cologne, Germany and stand tall in their contribution to the development of the ideal hero.  Sculpted in the 13th century these valiants are the earliest known representations of a group of champions who best personified the ideals of chivalry as described by Jacques de Longuyon in the French epic poem, Vows of the Peacock.

Worthies (link to poem) is the label assigned to these select historical, scriptural, mythological or semi-legendary characters  who were identified in the Middle Ages to represent all facets of the perfectly chivalrous warrior.

The study of the life of each would thus form a good education for the aspiring young man because as a team they exemplified all the moral virtues and courage necessary for soldiership.

This artwork ties directly into my current book club selection, How to Destroy The Imagination of Your Child, where the author Anthony Esolen supplies the reader with a host of books, novels, epics, tales, and narratives which, if read, will inform (NOT destroy)  the imagination and prepare it for a life of service.

Allow me to introduce the Worthies who compose a triad of triads true to medieval symmetry ~

Hector
Alexander the Great
Julius Caesar


Joshua
David
Judas Maccabeus


King Arthur
Charlemagne
Godfrey of Bouillon

The first triad is pagan;  the second represents Old Testament Jews, and the third Christian princes.

May the literature inspired by these personages act as refreshing gargoyles spilling stimulating springs of ideas into the hearts and minds of our up-and-coming generation of heroes.

And thanks to Cindy for hostessing this fun online book club and for having the insight to choose such a worthy volume.

Bonus Link ~

Read about Millais' Boyhood of Raleigh

Fashion Friday

Not your typical Christmas green, I'm having fun with teal and turquoise this Fall/Winter.

The puffy vest is new (onsale), but the blouse is not ~ one of those items re-discovered when sorting through my closet. That's the basis of my fashion posts - giving new life to an old item and thereby adding a punch to my style.

One holiday season, I dressed my four daughters in pink and white.  Again, not your typical Christmas colors.  But it proved fortuitous by making it easy to spot them in a crowd.  That was the year we went to the Festival of Trees at the World Congress Center in downtown Atlanta..... if any of you four are reading ;-)

So, now that the holidays are upon us and many have decorated homes, tell me....

Do you dress differently in December?





Bonus FAF (Fine Art Friday)
Still Life after Harnett
Pencil on Reeves Paper
by DD#1

Poetical Musings

Three cheers for Cady, Harrison
ensconsed in his beautiful garrison,


with a smile on his face
as he ages with grace;


a man to whom there is no comparison.


He sits in his Ivory Tower
and reflects on the bird and the flower,
and the animals, too,
for he drew quite a few
as they placed in their deep woodland bower.

When young he acquired the good habit
of drawing the hare, Peter Rabbit
and it brought to his name
quite some measure of fame,
that equaled Bugs Bunny & Br'er Rabbit.

Illustrations he drew
one a day,
fifteen thousand in all,
so they say.


W. Harrison Cady
American Illustrator
1877 - 1970

Here's a link to the Smithsonian's Archives of American Art which hosts an online exhibit of his work.

Yellow

Today I'm thinking about the Glyman family, extended. They lost a sister (Sue) over the weekend. And while I never had the opportunity to meet her in real life, I do know one of her sisters, Donna at Quiet Life. So, in this very small way, I honor their grief by highlighting the strength of sisters in this colorful poem.

You were yellow,

I was red, including pink and some

lavenders.  If the lavenders

got too bluish, they were Tita's, our

blue sister, who could also have

green if she wanted.  Our baby sister

wasn't even born yet, and

then she was mostly in white for a few

years until she stared learning

her colors and wanted all of them for

herself.  We were ingrained in

our colors; to this day, almost thirty

years later, I see a sunset,

and I think, yours.

Julia Alvarez

Dominican-American

 poet, novelist, and essayist

1950 -      

Sunset
John Constable
British Oil Painting, 1828

Constable's Clouds
for Fred H Stocking
by Peter Filkins

I

Scudding through distances, hovering in blue
vacuities of a summer's day, cumuli
float upon the surface of a ranging eye
that studies their shape, analyzes their hue



in pigments now aswirl upon the palette,
soft collisions of white and red and grey
soon weathering the canvas, capturing a day
whose transience we know because he saw it


there in the changeable sky he stood beneath,
stratus and nimbus, thunderhead and puff
fixed in their currency, the consequence of
the raw prevailing wind on Hampstead Heath.


There are three more chapters to this memorial poem which I will post after my short explanation.  It appears that Filkins wrote this poem to honor a colleague who was fond of Constable and Clouds, both of which interest me.

Last year I visited the Frick and gazed at one rendition of Salisbury Cathedral, which rekindled my interest in Constable.  If I were re-doing college at this stage of the game, I might very well choose some sort of blended major that would allow me to combine subjects.

Art, science, geography, history, et cetera are all subjects easily covered by studying Constable.  I wish I'd been able to see the National Gallery exhibit of 2007.  The next best thing is reading all about it here.

Now for the rest of the story.

II

"no two days are alike, nor even two hours,"
and so his brush keeps on the move while he
does not, despising those who continually
ignore their craft by "running after pictures."

Weymouth, Harrow, Flatford, Dedham Vale,
ephemera beneath the sky's broad radius
casting England's neutral light on all that is
and eludes him, be it fame, or more so the pale

evening light off a dark grey effect-looking
eastwards" toward a drifting back of cloud
that's there, then gone, someone in the crowd
later calling his picture "a nasty green thing."

III

Maria coughs again, the taste of blood
causing a cloud of fear to pass across
her feverish bright-eyed gaze.  Soon loss
will fell him. "Every gleam of sunshine blighted,

can it be wondered I paint continual storms?"
Each gathering front, each rising eastern gale
turbid now with grief, as wind and hail
consume a placid landscape, unleashing forms

that build and threaten, yet do not release
him from the sadness planted in his heart,
the demands of composition, the rigor of art
as equal to rain as sun, misery as peace.

IV

"I shall never feel again as I have felt,
the face of the world is totally changed to me."
And yet the sketches continue, originality
hard won upon the back of a life that's deal

with setback by studying atmospheric effect.
"Clouds, Moving very fast. With occasional
very bright openings to blue," the residual
of an autocumulus inhabiting the flex

of a brushstroke, "wind after rain in the morning"
the note he jots to catalogue the weather
he'll use, if not survive, observing much later,
"in truth, my art is another word for feeling."


I hope reading this poem inspires you as it does me on several levels.

But first, let me give credit where credit is due.

I learned about this poem from American Arts Quarterly, where it was published in the Spring 2009 edition.
They are a rich resource.

And last, but not least, the details about the painting in my FineArtFriday entry here.



Happy Friday!

The Owl and the Pussy-cat

In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are, you are, you are,
What a beautiful Pussy you are."


Pussy said to the Owl "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing.
O let us be married, too long we have tarried;
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.




"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?"
Said the Piggy, "I will"
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon.
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand.
They danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.


So, Edward Lear's nonsense poetry wins the day because I wanted to highlight this delightful collection of beautifully illustrated poems and his Owl and the Pussy Cat graces the cover.  Neil Philip is the editor, and Isabelle Brent, the illustrator.

Here's my FAF (fineartfriday) post.   I'm adding their books to my Amazon Wish List.

Best-Loved Poems is a common title for anthologies, this one being first published in 2000.   I give it five stars because 1) I like most of the poems; 2) I like the illustrations; and 3) I like its layout.

Two other oft-referenced anthologies on my bookshelf are The Best-Loved Poems of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and The Best-Loved Poems of the American People.

Do you have a favorite anthology?

Christmas


The shepherds sing;
and shall I silent be?
My God, no hymn for Thee?

My soul's a shepherd too;
a flock it feeds
Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.

The pasture is Thy word:
the streams, Thy grace,
Enriching all the place.

Shepherd and flock shall sing,
and all my powers
Outsing the daylight hours.





Then will we chide the sun for letting night
Take up his place and right:
We sing one common Lord;
wherefore he should
Himself the candle hold.
I will go searching, till I find a sun
Shall stay, till we have done;
A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly,
As frost-nipped suns look sadly.
Then will we sing, and shine all our own day,
And one another pay:
His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine,
Till ev'n His beams sing, and my music shine.



Poem by George Herbert


Art by W A Bouguereau
oil on canvas 165x88cm
Berkshire Museum



See previous entry for commentary on the painting.

Additional commentary

about the oil painting excerpted from Fronia Wissman's book, Bouguereau.

Comparing Bouguereau's shepherdess with a similar scene by Millet (Newborn Lamb), while in a different medium-pastel-and on a wholly different scale, shows how Bouguereau has citified, or, at the least, taken the country out of his version. Millet's peasant does not pose; she has work to do and walks sturdily along. She does, however, take the time to look back at the ewe, a relatively scrawny creature, who follows her baby. In Millet's pastel the lamb is truly tiny-almost pathetic in its yearning for its mother-not the larger animal, old enough to resemble a big, fuzzy stuffed animal, cradled by Bouguereau's girl. Millet's shepherdess is stocky, rounded, and wears nondescript clothes. A telling difference, apart from the fact that Millet locates his figure in the specific context of the Norman countryside, evinced by the swinging gate in the hedgerow, is the girls' feet. Bouguereau's shepherdesses and mothers are almost always barefoot; Millet's wear sabots, the wooden shoes of the peasants. Bare feet can mean many things-poverty, a carefree life in a warm climate, humility. The bare feet of Bouguereau's figures underscore the fact that they are not real peasants, as Millet's were seen to be, so the urban viewer need in no way feel responsible for the peasants' hard lives. Bouguereau would have denied such an interpretation, insisting that he painted the human figure because it was the most beautiful subject to paint. Painting the figure well, meaning according to classical precepts, was the goal of the academic tradition of which he was a proud part. Thus, well-drawn and well-painted feet, notoriously difficult to render convincingly, can be seen as a mark of a highly skilled academic painter. Not interested in limning contemporary social concerns, Bouguereau focused all his attention on what he was good at-conveying sentiment in perfectly drawn figures.

The Snow Goose

Illustrator Beth Peck's reputation drew my attention to The Snow Goose,

but it was author Paul Gallico's touching story of sacrificial love that captured my heart.









Set during the early 1940s, the narrative establishes the friendship of two unlikely characters in the small coastal town of Dunkirk.

Philip, the misfit artist and nature lover befriends Frith, a teenaged girl who brings an injured bird to his isolated doorstep. While this storyline develops and resolves, another is happening in the world at large - wartime.

At this point, the plot becomes both historical and spiritual. Philip is departing in his boat to help stranded soldiers.

Frith stared at Philip. He had changed so. For the first time she saw that he was no longer ugly mis-shapen or grotesque, but very beautiful. Things were turmoiling in her own soul, crying to be said, and she did not know how to say them.

The Snow Goose rates high on my list of gift books. The writing is descriptive, the plot instructive, and the illustrations enchanting.

I am not sure who will be the beneficiary of my copy.

Manhattan: Vermeer 's Allegory of Faith


Sunday seems like a fine day to highlight this particular Vermeer which was new to me.

I dont think of this Dutchman as a painter of religious works, but apparently he painted one.

Here's a link to the gallery label to help you locate all the meaningful items.


I love that Faith is using the world as her footstool!

Isaiah 66:1


Here's word of explanation copied from humanitiesweb:

You'd never know it from looking at his work, but Vermeer lived during turbulent times in Holland. Political and religious strife between Protestants
and Catholics in Holland was at a peak during the mid-1600s. Vermeer was born
and raised a staunch Protestant. But, much to the consternation of his parents
and friends, he fell in love with a Catholic girl, converted, and married her.
Even today, the saying goes that, "There is no more devout Catholic than a
Catholic convert." This was probably even more the case in Vermeer's troubled
time. His faith was important to him. That's why, when he was asked by his
church to paint an allegory of faith, he could neither refuse nor resist the
challenge, even though such a work was completely foreign to his artistic
background. This also accounts for the fact that his Allegory of the Faith,
painted in 1670, is easily his least satisfying, least successful work.

In many Protestant churches, pictures of Christ are forbidden (as graven images). Yet they abound as decoration and teaching tools. An enormous part of art history is church-related. So, while I fall squarely on the side against icons, I am not offended by Vermeer's rendition of the cruxification depicted in Allegory of Faith.



Side Note follows:

In my very short visit of Manhattan I am pleased to report that I regarded eight original Vermeers. I repeat: eight. There are only 35, all together.

So, three at the Frick.

And,  five at the Met.

Plus I've seen the ones at the National Gallery in Washington, DC.

That's six more.

I am especially fond of the one with the woman holding the balance.

According to my travel diary, I visited the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, Holland, on June 18th 1978.

There are four there. That brings me up to 18!

I must have seen *The Milkmaid* because she's there.

(FYI she's visiting the Met in September.)

Then in Vienna at the Kunsthistoriches Museum around 4 July 1978, I could have seen The Artist's Studio.

Earlier that summer in London, I recorded visiting the National Gallery in London, which boasts two: Women at Virginals.

Now I can count having seen 21 of the 35.

Do you seek out artists/paintings like that?

The Triumph of the Lamb

by Marguerite of Angouleme
11 April 1492 – 21 December 1549










Today is the 517th birthday of the author of this poem, and aside from noting that, I want to remember to study her. She was truly a Renaissance woman who not only carried out her political role at court but also devoted much of her energy and attention to spiritual matters. In 1521 she began a correspondence with Guillaume Briconnet, bishop of Meaux, who introduced her to the evangelist movement, the call for reform within the Catholic Church, and a return to the original purity of the Scriptures.

The following is only a small part of a larger poem.

Since my desire is now to celebrate
Thy triumphs, Word divine, impart to me
Such sweet accords and lofty harmonies
That no defect shall marr my song to Thee.
To sing Thy praises, Lord, is my intent
If by Thy Spirit Thou inspire my pen....
Thus, trusting, Lord, in Thy abundant grace
And knowing Thou wilt guide and lead me on,
I will begin to show the reason why
Thou first didst have compassion on mankind.



This is thought to be a portrait of Marguerite d'Angouleme,

Queen Consort to Henry II of Navarre and also the sister of Francis I, King of France.

Remember that Calvin addressed his Institutes of the Christian Religion to this king.

Oil on panel, 61.2 x 52.6cm
Jean Clouet, ca 1530
Court painter to Francis I

Walker Gallery
National Museums of Liverpool



This painting is full of symbols which may give clues to the painting's meaning. The sitter wears daisies in her hat. The French word for daisy is Marguerite. The parrot may symbolise eloquence and mean Marguerite was a good talker. The bird may also symbolise love, its green colour denoting passion.

Be sure and check out yesterday's Fine Art Friday post.

Zurbaran's painting is exquisite.

Fine Art Friday















Leo X by Raphael
Oil on Panel 60.6 x 46.9 in
1518 - 1519
Galleria degli Uffizi

This painting came to my attention while I was reading an interesting article by the outrageously liberal Camille Paglia. And in light of my comments about art opening doors (good for teaching purposes), I'm posting this artwork because I remember the intrigue, but I didnt know Raphael was commenting on it.

Paglia pins Leo for dividing Christianity. His ego would have appreciated that. But I'm not sure he deserves that much credit.

If you'd shown me this painting, I wouldnt have recognized the Pope.

Not sure I would recognize the current one either, except for his garb and entourage.

But I am trying to pick familiar faces out of this recent painting by three Chinese artists. See Shirley Temple?

How many do you recognize?

Stamp Art

Behold!

A virgin shall conceive, and bear a Son, and shall call his name Emmanuel, God with us.


Isaiah 7:14









The 2008 Christmas stamp features a detail from a work by the Italian master Sandro Botticelli, entitled Virgin and Child with the Young John the Baptist. This painting, tempera and oil on wood, dates to around 1490 and is now in the collection of the Cleveland Museum of Art. It presents one of the most common figural groups in religious art. (usps.com)


I like stamps. But I dont have a collection per se. I just like to buy and use different ones. Does that make me a philatelist?

Philately is the study of postage stamps, revenue stamps, stamped envelopes, postmarks, postal cards, covers, and similar material relating to postal or fiscal history.

Probably not.

Dilettant?

Most definitely.

At any rate, this beautiful stamp is the one which will frank the envelope of the good tidings I'm mailing early next week.

Do you send Christmas cards?

Or a letter?

Once on a holiday tour of homes, I saw an attractive arrangement of framed Christmas cards in the foyer. Of course, they were the ones sent by the homeowner, not like a Hallmark museum exhibit.

So, I'm saving mine.

Frances Lee Ila



















Oil on Canvas by Vera Holcombe, 1916
14 x 12 inches



I just love this portrait! And the story behind it is revealing.

As it goes, the artist is the older sister of the model. I have written about her paintings here and here. In this case, Frances Lee Ila aka *Peggy* refused to remove her red coat, even though the weather was warm.

The word *headstrong* comes to mind.

*Peggy* was my godmother, my maternal grandfather's office manager/nurse, shopping buddy/friend to my grandmother *Dee*, and second mother to my own mother. Her influence in our lives contributed to the naming of DD#4.

Frances Lee Ila (Holcombe) was the third daughter and her father had proposed the name *Peggy* for the first two, yet was *overrruled*. When *Peggy* was born, he again proposed the name. Again he was overruled. Finally, he retorted.

You can name her whatever you like, but I'm going to call her *Peggy*

I did not learn her real name until after she died.



Is there a special story behind a painting or photograph in your home?

Happy 150th Birthday















Oil Portrait of Theodore Roosevelt, 1903

Artist John Singer Sargent painted Theodore Roosevelt in a pose worthy of the president’s bold manner. In 1901 President Roosevelt issued an executive order changing the official name of the Executive Mansion to the White House, and proceeded to redecorate it in 1902. While the original exterior of the White House was preserved, the interior layout changed dramatically. Roosevelt wanted the house to reflect its historical nature instead of a home filled with “modern” furniture.

Credit: White House Historical Association (White House Collection)



From a 2005 NYTimes article:

Mr. Allman, curator, then pointed to what is considered the best portrait in the
collection, a John Singer Sargent of a forceful, irritated Theodore Roosevelt
that hangs in an East Room corner. Sargent took up residence in the White House
in the winter of 1903 for portrait sittings, but soon drove the president to
distraction by chasing him around trying to decide on the right pose. The final
portrait captures Roosevelt in a particularly exasperated moment with the
artist. "I don't think the president wanted to share as much time as Mr. Sargent
was hoping to have," Mr. Allman said.

And from John Milton Hay (1838–1905) American statesman, diplomat, author, journalist, and private secretary and assistant to Abraham Lincoln, a poem -


To Theodore Roosevelt


Son of a sire whose heart beat ever true
To God, to country, and the fireside love
To which returning, like a homing dove,
From each high duty done, he gladly flew,
Complete, yet touched by genius through and through,
The lofty qualities that made him great,
Loved in his home and priceless to the state,
By Heaven's grace are garnered up in you.
Be yours, we pray, the dauntless heart of youth,
The eye to see the humor of the game,
The scorn of lies, the large Batavian mirth;
And, past the happy, fruitful years of fame,
Of sport and work and battle for the truth,
A home not all unlike your home on earth.

Christmas Eve, 1902.

John Hay

Two Version's of The Knight, Death and The Devil















Engraving by Albrect Durer, 1513

Under the unreal helmet, the severe profile is cruel like the cruel sword waiting poised. Through the stripped forest rides the horseman unperturbed, clumsily, furtively. The obscene mob closes in on him: the devil with servile eyes, the labyrinthing reptile, and the ashen old man with the hour glass. Iron rider, whoever looks at you knows that in you neither the lie nor pale fear dwells. Your hard fate is to command and offend. You are the brave and you are certainly not unworthy, German, of the devil and death.

There are two roads - that of the man of iron and arrogance who rides firm in his faith through the doubtful woods of the world between the taunts and rigid dance of the devil with death. And the other, the short one, mine.

In what vanished, long-ago night or morning did my eyes discover the fantastic epic, the enduring dream of Durer: the hero and the mob with all its shadows, searching me out and catching me in ambush. It is me and not the paladin whom the hoary old man crowned with sinuous snakes as warning. The future's water clock measures my time not his eternal now. I am the one who will be ashes and darkness. I who set out later will have reached my mortal destination. You, who do not exist, you, rider of the raised sword and the rigid woods, your pace will keep on going as long as there are men: composed, imaginary, eternal.

by Luis Borges
Argentine writer
1899 - 1986



I transcribed this poem by listening to it on YouTube. I feel sure I have butchered the dynamics, but will come back to correct whenever I find it.

It was just too good to pass up.

Hey, Cindy! Do you know this poem?

Art and Truth


We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth, at least the truth that is given to us to understand.

Pablo Picasso


Researching for my FAF entry, I stopped by Artcyclopedia for some details and noticed that topping the list of favorite searches is Mr. Picasso. Not one of my favorites at all, in fact I eschew him, today I highlight the phrase at the top of his Artcyclopedia page and entreat you to read a longer quote at the end of my entry.

While I might warm up to some of Picasso's art by visiting the museum in Madison, GA to see a signed print, I cannot seem to erase from my mind Picasso's political persuasions. I guess I should be glad I dont know too much about the backgrounds of other artists or I would like none.

As many of you know I'm reading (slowly) Ideas Have Consequences by Richard Weaver. It is very thought-provoking. It was published in 1948. The following Picasso quote dates from 1952. The two have a connection.

From the moment that art ceases to be food that feeds the best minds, the artist can use his talents to perform all the tricks of the intellectual charlatan. Most people can today no longer expect to receive consolation and exaltation from art. The refined, the rich, the professional 'do-nothings,' the distillers of quintessence desire only the peculiar, the sensational, the eccentric, the scandalous in today's art.

I myself since the advent of Cubism, have fed these fellows what they wanted and satisfied these critics with all the ridiculous ideas that have passed through my mind. The less they understood them, the more they admired me. Through amusing myself with all these absurd farces, I became celebrated, and very rapidly. For a painter, celebrity means sales and consequent affluence. Today, as you know, I am celebrated, I am rich. But when I am alone, I do not have the effrontery to consider myself an artist at all, not in the grand old meaning of the world: Giotto, Titian, Rembrandt, Goya were great painters.

I am only a public clown - a mountebank.


I have understood my time and have exploited the imbecility, the vanity, the greed of my contemporaries.

It is a bitter confession,

this confession of mine,

more painful than it may seem.
But at least and at last it does have the merit of being honest.

For sources-nazis like myself, this quote is clipped from the publisher's letter page of Plein Air magazine, Oct 2005 issue. The comments were titled "Weapon of Indifference."

Docent of Glory

Witnessing for Christ isnt as difficult as I make it out to be, as indicated in this well-written article by T M Moore, Can I Get A Witness. The imagery, language, and Scriptural references are powerful. I commend it to your attention.

A few weeks ago, Carmon entreated us to talk about our faith and I embarked upon an entry entitled Testimony on Tuesdays. But I quickly got bogged down because I didnt want to talk about myself.

This article stimulates my perspective.

I can picture myself as a *docent of glory*.

My homework is to reflect on His Glory and come up with some testimony for next week's Witness on Wednesday.