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TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE – early death: writers, poets & artists who died young

· NOVALIS: Das Gedicht · Jeroen BROUWERS: De laatste deur (nieuwe herziene en uitgebreide editie) · NOVALIS: Geschichte der Poesie · Sibylla SCHWARZ: Sonnet · NOVALIS: Letzte Liebe · Katie ROIPHE: Het uur van het violet – Grote schrijvers in hun laatste dagen · Sibylla SCHWARZ: Auß dem Lied vohn der beständigen Liebe · Een avond over het werk van JEROEN METTES · KAROLINE VON GÜNDERRODE: Tendenz des Künstlers · KATHERINE MANSFIELD: Feuille d’Album · EVA HESSE – Documentary film “Eva Hesse” about the German-American 1960’s artist and the art world of the 1960s · A Suburban Fairy Tale by KATHERINE MANSFIELD

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NOVALIS: Das Gedicht

Novalis
Das Gedicht

Himmlisches Leben im blauen Gewande
Stiller Wunsch in blassem Schein –
Flüchtig gräbt in bunten Sande
Sie den Zug des Namens ein –

Unter hohen festen Bogen
Nur von Lampenlicht erhellt
Liegt, seitdem der Geist entflogen
Nun das Heiligste der Welt.

Leise kündet beßre Tage
Ein verlornes Blatt uns an
Und wir sehn der alten Sage
Mächtige Augen aufgetan.

Naht euch stumm dem ernsten Tore,
Harrt auf seinen Flügelschlag
Und vernehmt herab vom Chore
Wo weissagend der Marmor lag.

Flüchtiges Leben und lichte Gestalten
Füllten die weite, leere Nacht
Nur von Scherzen aufgehalten
Wurden unendliche Zeiten verbracht –

Liebe brachte gefüllte Becher
Also perlt in Blumen der Geist
Ewig trinken die kindlichen Zecher
Bis der geheiligte Teppich zerreißt.

Fort durch unabsehliche Reihn
Schwanden die bunten rauschenden Wagen
Endlich von farbigen Käfern getragen
Kam die Blumenfürstin allein[.]

Schleier, wie Wolken zogen
Von der blendenden Stirn zu den Füßen
Wir fielen nieder sie zu grüßen
Wir weinten bald – sie war entflogen.

Novalis (1772 – 1801)
Gedicht: Das Gedicht
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive M-N, Novalis, Novalis


Jeroen BROUWERS: De laatste deur (nieuwe herziene en uitgebreide editie)

De laatste deur (nieuwe herziene en zeer uitgebreide editie)
door Jeroen Brouwers

Liefde-literatuur-dood is de thematische drie-eenheid binnen het oeuvre van Jeroen Brouwers. Zijn fascinatie voor zelfmoord dateert van het begin van de jaren zeventig, toen een vriendin zich het leven had benomen. Brouwers’ wens om het zelfmoordraadsel te begrijpen resulteerde in het inmiddels legendarische boek De laatste deur.

Dit is de ingrijpend herziene en zeer uitgebreide editie van het dertig jaar geleden verschenen werk, dat handelt over de zelfverkozen dood van Nederlandstalige schrijvers. Vanuit gevoelens van mededogen, begrip en solidariteit met hen die in het verleden en de meer recente tijd de hand aan zichzelf sloegen (van wie hij er enkelen van zeer nabij heeft gekend), poogt Brouwers aan de hand van hun literaire werk een mogelijke verklaring te vinden voor hun ultieme daad.

Brouwers karakteriseert op integere en invoelende wijze uiteenlopende figuren als François Haverschmidt (Piet Paaltjens), Menno ter Braak, Halbo Kool, Jan Emmens, Jan Arends, Dirk de Witte, Jan Emiel Daele, Jotie T’Hooft en tal van anderen. Deze nieuwe editie bevat ook levensgeschiedenissen van overledenen in de laatste jaren: Adriaan Venema, Anil Ramdas, Nanne Tepper, Joost Zwagerman en Wim Brands.

Aan De laatste deur is een supplement toegevoegd (De zwarte zon, De versierde dood en verspreide opstellen) met essays over buitenlandse schrijvers en onderwerpen als zelfmoordverenigingen en –sekten, en geruchten en verzinsels over zelfmoord. Een aantal van deze opstellen is niet eerder in boekvorm verschenen.

Auteur(s) : Jeroen Brouwers
Uitgeverij : Atlas Contact
ISBN : 9789045021089
Taal : Nederlands
Uitvoering : Hardcover
Aantal pagina’s : 1400
Verschijningsdatum : 15-03-2017
Afmetingen : 314 x 254 x 27 mm.
Gewicht : 700 gr.

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Archive Tombeau de la jeunesse, - Book News, Art & Literature News, Babylon, Frans, Brands, Wim, DRUGS & MEDICINE & LITERATURE, Galerie des Morts, Jeroen Brouwers, Zwagerman, Joost


NOVALIS: Geschichte der Poesie

Novalis
Geschichte der Poesie

Wie die Erde voller Schönheit blühte,
Sanftumschleiert von dem Rosenglanz
Ihrer Jugend und noch bräutlich glühte
Aus der Weihumarmung, die den Kranz
Ihrer unenthüllten Kindheit raubte,
Jeder Wintersturm die Holde mied,
O! da säuselte durch die belaubte
Myrte Zephir sanft das erste Lied.

Eva lauschte im Gebüsch daneben
Und empfand mit Jugendphantasie
Dieser Töne jugendliches Leben
Und die neugeborne Harmonie,
Süßen Trieb empfand auch Philomele
Leise nachzubilden diesen Klang;
Mühelos entströmet ihrer Kehle
Sanft der göttliche Gesang.

Himmlische Begeistrung floß hernieder
In der Huldin reingestimmte Brust,
Und ihr Mund ergoß in Freudenlieder
Und in Dankgesängen ihre Lust,
Tiere, Vögel, selbst die Palmenäste
Neigten staunender zu ihr sich hin,
Alles schwieg, es buhlten nur die Weste
Froh um ihre Schülerin.

Göttin Dichtkunst kam in Rosenblüte
Hoher Jugend eingehüllt herab
Aus dem Äther, schön wie Aphrodite,
Da ihr Ozean das Dasein gab.
Goldne Wölkchen trugen sie hernieder,
Sie umfloß der reinste Balsamduft,
Kleine Genien ertönten Lieder
In der tränenlosen Luft.

Novalis (1772 – 1801)
Gedicht: Geschichte der Poesie
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive M-N, Novalis, Novalis


Sibylla SCHWARZ: Sonnet

 

Sibylla Schwarz
Sonnet
(Daphne aus der Schäfererzählung: Faunus)

Hier hab ich nun mein sehnliches Verlangen:
hier liegt mein Lieb, hier ligt mein ander ich:
hier giebt das Glück sich selbst gefangen mich:
hier mag ich nun mein Lieb vielmahl umfangen:
hier mag ich nun auch küssen seine Wangen:
Cupido hört mein Klagen inniglich,
und wil nun auch so hülffreich zeigen sich;
Nun mag ich wohl mit meinem Glücke prangen;
die Venus zeigt mir iezt ein guhtes Ziel,
ich wil nur selbst, nicht was ich gerne wil;
O Blödigkeit, du must nur von mir weichen!
weil du hir bist, wärt meine grosse Pein;
Wer lieben wil, mus nicht so blöde seyn,
sonst kan er nicht der Liebe Lohn erreichen.

Sibylla Schwarz (1621 – 1638)
Gedicht: Sonnet
(Daphne aus der Schäfererzählung: Faunus)
(Blödigkeit bedeutet Schüchternheit)
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, SIbylla Schwarz


NOVALIS: Letzte Liebe

Novalis
Letzte Liebe

Also noch ein freundlicher Blick am Ende der Wallfahrt,
Ehe die Pforte des Hains leise sich hinter mir schließt.
Dankbar nehm ich das Zeichen der treuen Begleiterin Liebe
Fröhlichen Mutes an, öffne das Herz ihr mit Lust.
Sie hat mich durch das Leben allein ratgebend geleitet,
Ihr ist das ganze Verdienst, wenn ich dem Guten gefolgt,
Wenn manch zärtliches Herz dem Frühgeschiedenen nachweint
Und dem erfahrenen Mann Hoffnungen welken mit mir.
Noch als das Kind, im süßen Gefühl sich entfaltender Kräfte,
Wahrlich als Sonntagskind trat in den siebenten Lenz,
Rührte mit leiser Hand den jungen Busen die Liebe,
Weibliche Anmut schmückt jene Vergangenheit reich.
Wie aus dem Schlummer die Mutter den Liebling weckt mit dem Kusse,
Wie er zuerst sie sieht und sich verständigt an ihr:
Also die Liebe mit mir – durch sie erfuhr ich die Welt erst,
Fand mich selber und ward, was man als Liebender wird.
Was bisher nur ein Spiel der Jugend war, das verkehrte
Nun sich in ernstes Geschäft, dennoch verließ sie mich nicht
Zweifel und Unruh suchten mich oft von ihr zu entfernen,
Endlich erschien der Tag, der die Erziehung vollzog,
Welcher mein Schicksal mir zur Geliebten gab und auf ewig
Frei mich gemacht und gewiß eines unendlichen Glücks.

Novalis (1772 – 1801)
Gedicht: Letzte Liebe
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive M-N, Novalis, Novalis


Katie ROIPHE: Het uur van het violet – Grote schrijvers in hun laatste dagen

Eén van de scherpzinnigste en opvallendste hedendaagse auteurs doet na diepgaand onderzoek verslag van de laatste levensdagen van Susan Sontag, Sigmund Freud, John Updike, Dylan Thomas, Maurice Sendak en James Salter. Het levert een aantal fascinerende en uiterst originele overwegingen op over de eindigheid van het leven.

In Het uur van het violet kiest Katie Roiphe voor een onverwachte en bevrijdende benadering van een onderwerp waar niemand omheen kan. Ze gaat na hoe de laatste levensdagen waren van zes grote denkers, schrijvers en kunstenaars en hoe zij omgingen met de realiteit van de naderende dood, of, zoals T.S. Eliot het noemde: ‘het avondlijk uur dat Huiswaarts gericht is en de zeeman thuisbrengt’.

We maken kennis met Susan Sontag, die, wanneer ze voor de derde keer de strijd tegen kanker aangaat, worstelt met haar engagement met het rationele denken. Roiphe neemt ons mee naar de kamer in het ziekenhuis waar de 76-jarige John Updike, nadat hem de slechtst mogelijke diagnose is meegedeeld, een gedicht begint te schrijven. Ze schept een levendig beeld van de twee weken durende, bijna suïcidaal overmatige inspanning die culmineerde in de totale instorting van Dylan Thomas in het Chelsea Hotel. Ze schetst voor ons een moedgevend portret van Sigmund Freud die, nadat hij het door de nazi’s bezette Wenen is ontvlucht, in zijn Londense ballingschap het dwangmatige roken van sigaren voortzet waarvan hij weet dat het zijn aftakeling zal verhaasten. En ze toont ons dat Maurice Sendaks geliefde kinderboeken doordesemd zijn van het feit dat hij zijn leven lang geobsedeerd was door de dood, al was dat niet altijd evident.

Het uur van het violet staat vol met intieme en verrassende onthullingen. In de laatste daden van al deze creatieve genieën worden we geconfronteerd met moed, passie, zelfbedrog, zinloos lijden en onovertroffen toewijding. Door de laatste levensdagen van deze grote auteurs te beschrijven in indrukwekkende, niet-sentimentele termen helpt Katie Roiphe ons om de dood moedig onder ogen te zien en er minder bang voor te zijn.

Katie Roiphe
Het uur van het violet
Grote schrijvers in hun laatste dagen
Vertaald uit het Engels door Anne Jongeling
Uitg. Hollands Diep
Paperback, 352 p.
ISBN: 9789048836420
€ 19.99 – Januari 2017

# Meer informatie op website Hollands Diep

fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: - Book News, Art & Literature News, DEAD POETS CORNER, DICTIONARY OF IDEAS, Galerie des Morts, Susan Sontag, Thomas, Dylan, TOMBEAU DE LA JEUNESSE - early death: writers, poets & artists who died young


Sibylla SCHWARZ: Auß dem Lied vohn der beständigen Liebe

Sibylla Schwarz
Auß dem Lied vohn der beständigen Liebe

Wol dem, der also ist verliebet,
daß seine Liebe nimmer weicht!
Wer sich der Wanckelmuht ergiebet,
der ist eß, der dem Mond sich gleicht.
Der Neidt, der sonst die Liebe bricht,
der bricht doch meine Liebe nicht.

Soll mich dan nuhn der Neidt betrügen,
mich der kein Tod abschrecken kan?
soll mich die Welt mit ihrem Liegen
izt führen eine frembde Bahn?
Der Neidt, der sonst die Liebe bricht,
der bricht doch meine Liebe nicht.

Das ist eß, das wir armen klagen:
Wan einer sich ein Ziel erkießt,
so bald wil ihn der Neidt verjagen,
der aller Liebe Schewsahl ist:
Der Neid der sonst die Liebe bricht,
der bricht doch meine Liebe nicht.

Will nuhn der Neid das Brodt mir nehmen,
und denckt mich damit abzuziehn,
was will ich mich doch darümb grähmen,
die Lieb ernehrt mich immer hin;
Der Neidt der sonst die Liebe bricht,
der bricht doch meine Liebe nicht.

Will mich der Neidt in grünen Zeiten,
da meine Jugend Blumen trägt,
schon in Verzweiflungs Banden leiten,
eh ich mit Reiff und Schnee bedeckt?
Der Neidt, der sonst die Liebe bricht,
der bricht doch meine Liebe nicht.

Bin ich der ärmste zwahr im Lande,
bin ich zwahr der, dem Geld gebricht,
so nehm ich Armuht für die Schande,
die Armuht tuht der Liebe nicht:
der Neid, der sonst die Liebe bricht,
der bricht doch meine Liebe nicht.

Wan mir nuhr gibt mein Liecht, mein Leben
die Hand voll Lieb und trewer Gunst,
wil ich doch nicht dis kleine geben
ümb aller Welt Gelt, Guht und Kunst:
der Neidt, der sonst die Liebe bricht,
der bricht doch meine Liebe nicht.

Hiemit wil ich die Seuffzer enden;
Gelück, ich geb dir guhte Nacht
du magst dich links und rechts ümbwenden,
Ich bin der, der des Glückes lacht,
und vohn der Liebe lass ich nicht,
biß daß der Tod sie selber bricht.

Sibylla Schwarz (1621 – 1638)
Gedicht: Auß dem Lied vohn der beständigen Liebe
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive S-T, SIbylla Schwarz


Een avond over het werk van JEROEN METTES

mettes-jeroen-111Perdu Programma — vrijdag 16 dec 2016 – 20:00 – N30x31 /// I.M. Jeroen Mettes
Een avond over het werk van Jeroen Mettes

Aanvang: 20.00 uur, deur open: 19.30 uur – Entree: 7 / 5 euro (korting geldt voor studenten, stadspashouders, vrienden van Perdu, VvL-leden). Met Alfred Schaffer, Samuel Vriezen, Rozalie Hirs, Hannah van Binsbergen, Fiep van Bodegom, Max Urai, Tonnus Oosterhoff, Johan Herrenberg, Roelof ten Napel, Frans-Willem Korsten, Anne van de Wetering, Lieke Marsman, Maarten van der Graaff, Lara Staal, Saskia de Jong, Çağlar Köseoğlu, Zohra Beldman, Mathijs Tratsaert, Arno van Vlierberghe, Dominique de Groen, Nadia de Vries, Nguyễn Nam Chi, Bram Ieven, Geert Buelens, Aafke Romeijn, Siebe Bluijs, Sophie van den Bergh, Maartje Smits, Frank Keizer, Daniël Rovers, Obe Alkema & Dean Bowen.

De zon gaat onder en in de vijver drijven zwanen, alsof ze van hout zijn, stil tussen de oevers. Terwijl m’n browser ’n applet laadt, laat ik de jaloezieën neer. Ik zag een man – een mens met een gezicht en een geslacht en een manier van kleden en fietsen – en ik dacht: daar gaat een zin!  (J.M.)

mettes-jeroen-112Jeroen Mettes (Eindhoven 1978 – Den Haag 2006) was een Nederlandse dichter, essayist en blogger.

Jeroen Mettes groeide op in Valkenswaard, studeerde filosofie in Utrecht en literatuurwetenschap aan de Universiteit Leiden, waar hij tot 2006 aan een proefschrift werkte over poëtisch ritme.

In 1999 begon hij aan een lang prozagedicht dat hij de naam N30 gaf. Dat was de codenaam van de anti- of andersglobalistische protesten in Seattle tijdens de onderhandelingen van de WTO. De betogers eisten een wereldwijde erkenning van eerlijke handel, vakbonden en milieuwetgeving. Zeven jaar later, in 2006, was er een gedicht ontstaan van zo’n 60.000 woorden lang.

In 2005 startte Jeroen Mettes het blog Poëzienotities. Belangrijk onderdeel van dat blog werd het Dichtersalfabet. Mettes besprak – in alfabetische volgorde – op zijn blog de poëziebundels die hij aantrof in boekhandel Verwijs in zijn woonplaats Den Haag. Hij begon met de A van Anne van Amstel, en zou eindigen bij de G van Goudeseune. Als dichter debuteerde Jeroen Mettes in het tijdschrift Parmentier met de reeks van vier gedichten getiteld ‘In de sfeer van het gestelde’. Als jonge twintiger had hij al prozabijdragen geleverd aan onder meer de tijdschriften Zoetermeer en Passionate.

Eind 2005 trad Mettes toe tot de redactie van het tijdschrift yang (nu nY). Hij was ook vast medewerker van het tijdschrift Parmentier.

Op 21 september 2006 plaatste hij een lege post op zijn blog. Diezelfde dag maakte hij thuis in Den Haag een einde aan zijn leven. Hij liet naast zijn gedichten, essays en zijn blog, een ver gevorderd proefschrift na, met als werktitel The Poetry of the Formless.

# Meer info op website n30.nl blog

Een zekere gerichte vernietiging laat groeven en kraters achter die een kaart schetsen voor een volgend avontuur. Pounds periplum: varend de kusten in kaart brengen, immanente plaatsbepaling. En met de kaart verandert het terrein, met het gedicht verandert de geschiedenis. (J.M.)

fleursdumal.nl magazineforartandliterature

More in: Archive M-N, Jeroen Mettes, Mettes, Jeroen


KAROLINE VON GÜNDERRODE: Tendenz des Künstlers

GUNDERRODE011

Karoline von Günderrode
(1780 – 1806)

Tendenz des Künstlers

Sage! was treibt doch den Künstler, sein Ideal aus dem Lande
Der Ideen zu ziehn, und es dem Stoff zu vertraun?
Schöner wird ihm sein Bilden gelingen im Reich der Gedanken,
Wäre es flüchtiger zwar, dennoch auch freier dafür,
Und sein Eigenthum mehr, und nicht dem Stoff unterthänig.

Frager! der du so fragst, du verstehst nicht des Geistes Beginnen,
Siehst nicht was er erstrebt, nicht was der Künstler ersehnt.
Alle! sie wollen unsterbliches thun, die sterblichen Menschen.
Leben im Himmel die Frommen, in guten Thaten die Guten,
Bleibend will sein der Künstler im Reiche der Schönheit,
Darum in dauernder Form stellt den Gedanken er dar.

Karoline Günderrode Gedichte
fleursdumal.nl magazine

More in: Archive G-H, Karoline von Günderrode


KATHERINE MANSFIELD: Feuille d’Album

MANSFIELDKATH11

Feuille d’Album
by Katherine Mansfield

He really was an impossible person. Too shy altogether. With absolutely nothing to say for himself. And such a weight. Once he was in your studio he never knew when to go, but would sit on and on until you nearly screamed, and burned to throw something enormous after him when he did finally blush his way out-something like the tortoise stove. The strange thing was that at first sight he looked most interesting. Everybody agreed about that.

You would drift into the café one evening and there you would see, sitting in a corner, with a glass of coffee in front of him, a thin dark boy, wearing a blue jersey with a little grey flannel jacket buttoned over it. And somehow that blue jersey and the grey jacket with the sleeves that were too short gave him the air of a boy that has made up his mind to run away to sea. Who has run away, in fact, and will get up in a moment and sling a knotted handkerchief containing his nightshirt and his mother’s picture on the end of a stick, and walk out into the night and be drowned. . . . Stumble over the wharf edge on his way to the ship, even. . . . He had black close-cropped hair, grey eyes with long lashes, white cheeks and a mouth pouting as though he were determined not to cry. . . . How could one resist him? Oh, one’s heart was wrung at sight. And, as if that were not enough, there was his trick of blushing. . . . Whenever the waiter came near him he turned crimson-he might have been just out of prison and the waiter in the know . . . .

“Who is he, my dear? Do you know?”

“Yes. His name is Ian French. Painter. Awfully clever, they say. Someone started by giving him a mother’s tender care. She asked him how often he heard from home, whether he had enough blankets on his bed, how much milk he drank a day. But when she went round to his studio to give an eye to his socks, she rang and rang, and though she could have sworn she heard someone breathing inside, the door was not answered. . . . Hopeless!”

Someone else decided that he ought to fall in love. She summoned him to her side, called him “boy,” leaned over him so that he might smell the enchanting perfume of her hair, took his arm, told him how marvellous life could be if one only had the courage, and went round to his studio one evening and rang and rang. . . . Hopeless.

“What the poor boy really wants is thoroughly rousing,” said a third. So off they went to café’s and cabarets, little dances, places where you drank something that tasted like tinned apricot juice, but cost twenty-seven shillings a bottle and was called champagne, other places, too thrilling for words, where you sat in the most awful gloom, and where someone had always been shot the night before. But he did not turn a hair. Only once he got very drunk, but instead of blossoming forth, there he sat, stony, with two spots of red on his cheeks, like, my dear, yes, the dead image of that rag-time thing they were playing, like a “Broken Doll.” But when she took him back to his studio he had quite recovered, and said “good night” to her in the street below, as though they had walked home from church together. . . . Hopeless.

After heaven knows how many more attempts-for the spirit of kindness dies very hard in women-they gave him up. Of course, they were still perfectly charming, and asked him to their shows, and spoke to him in the café but that was all. When one is an artist one has no time simply for people who won’t respond. Has one?

“And besides I really think there must be something rather fishy somewhere . . . don’t you? It can’t all be as innocent as it looks! Why come to Paris if you want to be a daisy in the field? No, I’m not suspicious. But –”

He lived at the top of a tall mournful building overlooking the river. One of those buildings that look so romantic on rainy nights and moonlight nights, when the shutters are shut, and the heavy door, and the sign advertising “a little apartment to let immediately” gleams forlorn beyond words. One of those buildings that smell so unromantic all the year round, and where the concierge lives in a glass cage on the ground floor, wrapped up in a filthy shawl, stirring something in a saucepan and ladling out tit-bits to the swollen old dog lolling on a bead cushion. . . . Perched up in the air the studio had a wonderful view. The two big windows faced the water; he could see the boats and the barges swinging up and down, and the fringe of an island planted with trees, like a round bouquet. The side window looked across to another house, shabbier still and smaller, and down below there was a flower market. You could see the tops of huge umbrellas, with frills of bright flowers escaping from them, booths covered with striped awning where they sold plants in boxes and clumps of wet gleaming palms in terra-cotta jars. Among the flowers the old women scuttled from side to side, like crabs. Really there was no need for him to go out. If he sat at the window until his white beard fell over the sill he still would have found something to draw . . . .

How surprised those tender women would have been if they had managed to force the door. For he kept his studio as neat as a pin. Everything was arranged to form a pattern, a little “still life” as it were-the saucepans with their lids on the wall behind the gas stove, the bowl of eggs, milk jug and teapot on the shelf, the books and the lamp with the crinkly paper shade on the table. An Indian curtain that had a fringe of red leopards marching round it covered his bed by day, and on the wall beside the bed on a level with your eyes when you were lying down there was a small neatly printed notice: GET UP AT ONCE.

Every day was much the same. While the light was good he slaved at his painting, then cooked his meals and tidied up the place. And in the evenings he went off to the café, or sat at home reading or making out the most complicated list of expenses headed: “What I ought to be able to do it on,” and ending with a sworn statement . . . “I swear not to exceed this amount for next month. Signed, Ian French.”

Nothing very fishy about this; but those far-seeing women were quite right. It wasn’t all.

One evening he was sitting at the side window eating some prunes and throwing the stones on to the tops of the huge umbrellas in the deserted flower market. It had been raining – the first real spring rain of the year had fallen-a bright spangle hung on everything, and the air smelled of buds and moist earth. Many voices sounding languid and content rang out in the dusky air, and the people who had come to close their windows and fasten the shutters leaned out instead. Down below in the market the trees were peppered with new green. What kind of trees were they? he wondered. And now came the lamplighter. He stared at the house across the way, the small, shabby house, and suddenly, as if in answer to his gaze, two wings of windows opened and a girl came out on to the tiny balcony carrying a pot of daffodils. She was a strangely thin girl in a dark pinafore, with a pink handkerchief tied over her hair. Her sleeves were rolled up almost to her shoulders and her slender arms shone against the dark stuff.

“Yes, it is quite warm enough. It will do them good,” she said, puffing down the pot and turning to someone in the room inside. As she turned she put her hands up to the handkerchief and tucked away some wisps of hair. She looked down at the deserted market and up at the sky, but where he sat there might have been a hollow in the air. She simply did not see the house opposite. And then she disappeared.

His heart fell out of the side window of his studio, and down to the balcony of the house opposite-buried itself in the pot of daffodils under the half-opened buds and spears of green. . . . That room with the balcony was the sitting-room, and the one next door to it was the kitchen. He heard the clatter of the dishes as she washed up after supper, and then she came to the window, knocked a little mop against the ledge, and hung it on a nail to dry. She never sang or unbraided her hair, or held out her arms to the moon as young girls are supposed to do. And she always wore the same dark pinafore and the pink handkerchief over her hair. . . . Whom did she live with? Nobody else came to those two windows, and yet she was always talking to someone in the room. Her mother, he decided, was an invalid. They took in sewing. The father was dead. . . . He had been a journalist-very pale, with long moustaches, and a piece of black hair falling over his forehead.

By working all day they just made enough money to live on, but they never went out and they had no friends. Now when he sat down at his table he had to make an entirely new set of sworn statements. . . . Not to go to the side window before a certain hour: signed, Ian French. Not to think about her until he had put away his painting things for the day: signed, Ian French.

It was quite simple. She was the only person he really wanted to know, because she was, he decided, the only other person alive who was just his age. He couldn’t stand giggling girls, and he had no use for grown-up women. . . . She was his age, she was-well, just like him. He sat in his dusky studio, tired, with one arm hanging over the back of his chair, staring in at her window and seeing himself in there with her. She had a violent temper; they quarrelled terribly at times, he and she. She had a way of stamping her foot and twisting her hands in her pinafore . . . furious. And she very rarely laughed. Only when she told him about an absurd little kitten she once had who used to roar and pretend to be a lion when it was given meat to eat. Things like that made her laugh. . . . But as a rule they sat together very quietly; he, just as he was sitting now, and she with her hands folded in her lap and her feet tucked under, talking in low tones, or silent and tired after the day’s work. Of course, she never asked him about his pictures, and of course he made the most wonderful drawings of her which she hated, because he made her so thin and so dark. . . . But how could he get to know her? This might go on for years . . . .

Then he discovered that once a week, in the evenings, she went out shopping. On two successive Thursdays she came to the window wearing an old-fashioned cape over the pinafore, and carrying a basket. From where he sat he could not see the door of her house, but on the next Thursday evening at the same time he snatched up his cap and ran down the stairs. There was a lovely pink light over everything. He saw it glowing in the river, and the people walking towards him had pink faces and pink hands.

He leaned against the side of his house waiting for her and he had no idea of what he was going to do or say. “Here she comes,” said a voice in his head. She walked very quickly, with small, light steps; with one hand she carried the basket, with the other she kept the cape together. . . . What could he do? He could only follow. . . . First she went into the grocer’s and spent a long time in there, and then she went into the butcher’s where she had to wait her turn. Then she was an age at the draper’s matching something, and then she went to the fruit shop and bought a lemon. As he watched her he knew more surely than ever he must get to know her, now. Her composure, her seriousness and her loneliness, the very way she walked as though she was eager to be done with this world of grown-ups all was so natural to him and so inevitable.

“Yes, she is always like that,” he thought proudly. “We have nothing to do with-these people.”

But now she was on her way home and he was as far off as ever. . . . She suddenly turned into the dairy and he saw her through the window buying an egg. She picked it out of the basket with such care-a brown one, a beautifully shaped one, the one he would have chosen. And when she came out of the dairy he went in after her. In a moment he was out again, and following her past his house across the flower market, dodging among the huge umbrellas and treading on the fallen flowers and the round marks where the pots had stood. . . . Through her door he crept, and up the stairs after, taking care to tread in time with her so that she should not notice. Finally, she stopped on the landing, and took the key out of her purse. As she put it into the door he ran up and faced her.

Blushing more crimson than ever, but looking at her severely he said, almost angrily: “Excuse me, Mademoiselle, you dropped this.”

And he handed her an egg.

Feuille d’Album
by Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
From: Bliss, and other stories

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More in: Archive M-N, Katherine Mansfield, Mansfield, Katherine


EVA HESSE – Documentary film “Eva Hesse” about the German-American 1960’s artist and the art world of the 1960s

evahesse-110From the beginning, Eva Hesse’s life was marked by drama and social challenges. Born in Hamburg in 1936 to a German-Jewish family, the artist’s fierce work ethic may have developed from a complex psychology that was formed, in part, as a Jew born in Nazi Germany.

Having escaped the fate of her extended family, Eva and her older sister Helen were sent out on one of the last Kindertransports (trains that carried Jewish children to safety) and was eventually reunited with their parents in Holland. They made their way to New York but her family struggled to make a new home and her mother, after many years of depression and a failed marriage, committed suicide when Eva was 9 years old.

The artist graduated from Cooper Union and Yale School of Art, then returned home to Manhattan in late 1959 and began to receive attention for her highly original, abstract drawings. In 1961 Hesse met Tom Doyle, an already established sculptor, and in a whirlwind romance married him a scant 6 months after first glimpse. Their relationship was both passionate and competitive. Hesse struggled with the desire to be on equal footing with Doyle in terms of their art making but also wanted to be in a marriage with someone who could offer her the security that life often denied her.

In 1964 Friedrich Arnhard Scheidt, a German industrialist, offered an all-expenses paid artist’s residency to Tom Doyle for year of working in an abandoned textile factory near Essen, Germany. It was tough choice – go back to the country that had murdered her family or stay in New York and work menial jobs while trying to make art with any time and energy left over. Ironically, the work on which her reputation was built began to emerge during this extended visit to the homeland she had escaped 25 years earlier.

When the couple arrived for the residency, Doyle was clearly the artist of note. But something happened during those 14 months in the cold factory on the Ruhr River. Eva arrived in Germany a painter. But as she worked in the thin German light, she began to incorporate pieces of metal and string that she found in the corner of her studio into her work. By the time the couple were ready to return to New York in the fall of 1965, Eva had fully incorporated a 3-dimensionality into her work which was now neither painting nor sculpture, but an exciting cross-breed of the two. And people were beginning to take notice. Within months after returning to New York in the fall of 1965, her work was thriving but the marriage failed. Tom moved into his studio just across the Bowery.

For the next 5 years, Eva worked non-stop on an impressive body of work, completing dozens of major sculptural works and hundreds of works on paper. Although she sold little, critical attention was paid and she was showing often and in excellent venues. In 1969 Hesse, who had suffered with headaches for many years, began having debilitating episodes and was eventually diagnosed with a brain tumor. Although the subsequent operation was deemed a success, the tumors reappeared and she died in 1970 at the age of 34.

evahesse-112As the wild ride of the 1960’s came to a close, Eva Hesse, a 34 year-old German-born American artist was cresting the wave of a swiftly rising career. One of the few women recognized as central to the New York art scene, she had over 20 group shows scheduled for 1970 in addition to being chosen for a cover article in ArtForum Magazine. Her work was finally receiving both the critical and commercial attention it deserved. When she died in May, 1970 from a brain tumor, the life of one of that decades’ most passionate and brilliant artists was tragically cut short. As Jonathon Keats wrote in Art and Antiques Magazine “Yet the end of her life proved to be only the beginning of her career. The couple of solo gallery shows she hustled in the 11 years following her graduation from the Yale School of Art have since been eclipsed by multiple posthumous retrospectives at major museums from the Guggenheim to the Hirshhorn to the Tate.” Her work is now held by many important museum collections including the Whitney, MoMA, the Hirschhorn, the Pompidou in Paris and London’s Tate Modern.

Artists such as Dan Graham, Richard Serra, Nancy Holt, Carl Andre, Robert and Sylvia Plimack Mangold, Eva’s husband Tom Doyle and her friend, writer Lucy Lippard speak candidly and with great passion about the 60’s, Eva’s work and her life. In addition, Sir Nicholas Serota, Director of the Tate Museums and Whitney curator Elisabeth Sussman have added their views on Hesse’s work and legacy. Hesse’s journals and correspondence provides much of the guiding narration.

Eva Hesse deepens the understanding of this extraordinary artist, not only in terms of her ground-breaking work, but also the life that provided the fertile soil for her achievements. With dozens of new interviews, high quality footage of Hesse’s artwork and a wealth of newly discovered archival imagery, the documentary not only traces Eva’s path but engages in a lively investigation into the creative community of 1960’s New York and Germany.

The Movie-team
– Marcie Begleiter. Director-Producer
– Karen Shapiro. Producer
– Nancy Schreiber. Cinematographer
– Azin Samari. Editor
– Andreas Schäfer & Raffael Seyfried. Composers
Kia Simon. Motion Graphics Designer
– Michael Aust. Producer
– Louise Rosen. Consulting Producer

“Eva Hesse” is a sponsored project of Fractured Atlas, a non profit arts service organization. ‐
Contributions for the charitable purposes of the documentary must be made payable to “Fractured Atlas” and are tax deductible to the extent permitted ‐ by law.

# For more information about the documentary-project see the website

“This indispensable film will be shining a light on Hesse’s work, and her, for a long time to come.” Joe Morgenstern, The Wall Street Journal

EVA HESSE – Documentary film “Eva Hesse” about the German-American 1960’s artist and the art world of the 1960s.

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More in: Art & Literature News, Art Criticism, CINEMA, RADIO & TV, Eva Hesse, Eva Hesse, FDM in New York


A Suburban Fairy Tale by KATHERINE MANSFIELD

MANSFIELDKATH11A Suburban Fairy Tale
by Katherine Mansfield

Mr. and Mrs. B. sat at breakfast in the cosy red dining-room of their “snug little crib just under half-an-hour’s run from the City.”

There was a good fire in the grate—for the dining-room was the living-room as well—the two windows overlooking the cold empty garden patch were closed, and the air smelled agreeably of bacon and eggs, toast and coffee. Now that this rationing business was really over Mr. B. made a point of a thoroughly good tuck-in before facing the very real perils of the day. He didn’t mind who knew it—he was a true Englishman about his breakfast—he had to have it; he’d cave in without it, and if you told him that these Continental chaps could get through half the morning’s work he did on a roll and a cup of coffee—you simply didn’t know what you were talking about.

Mr. B. was a stout youngish man who hadn’t been able—worse luck—to chuck his job and join the Army; he’d tried for four years to get another chap to take his place but it was no go. He sat at the head of the table reading the Daily Mail. Mrs. B. was a youngish plump little body, rather like a pigeon. She sat opposite, preening herself behind the coffee set and keeping an eye of warning love on little B. who perched between them, swathed in a napkin and tapping the top of a soft-boiled egg.

Alas! Little B. was not at all the child that such parents had every right to expect. He was no fat little trot, no dumpling, no firm little pudding. He was under-sized for his age, with legs like macaroni, tiny claws, soft, soft hair that felt like mouse fur, and big wide-open eyes. For some strange reason everything in life seemed the wrong size for Little B.—too big and too violent. Everything knocked him over, took the wind out of his feeble sails and left him gasping and frightened. Mr. and Mrs. B. were quite powerless to prevent this; they could only pick him up after the mischief was done—and try to set him going again. And Mrs. B. loved him as only weak children are loved—and when Mr. B. thought what a marvellous little chap he was too—thought of the spunk of the little man, he—well he—by George—he …

“Why aren’t there two kinds of eggs?” said Little B. “Why aren’t there little eggs for children and big eggs like what this one is for grown-ups?”

“Scotch hares,” said Mr. B. “Fine Scotch hares for 5s. 3d. How about getting one, old girl?”

“It would be a nice change, wouldn’t it?” said Mrs. B. “Jugged.”

And they looked across at each other and there floated between them the Scotch hare in its rich gravy with stuffing balls and a white pot of red-currant jelly accompanying it.

“We might have had it for the week-end,” said Mrs. B. “But the butcher has promised me a nice little sirloin and it seems a pity”… Yes, it did and yet … Dear me, it was very difficult to decide. The hare would have been such a change—on the other hand, could you beat a really nice little sirloin?

“There’s hare soup, too,” said Mr. B. drumming his fingers on the table. “Best soup in the world!”

“O-Oh!” cried Little B. so suddenly and sharply that it gave them quite a start—“Look at the whole lot of sparrows flown on to our lawn”—he waved his spoon. “Look at them,” he cried. “Look!” And while he spoke, even though the windows were closed, they heard a loud shrill cheeping and chirping from the garden.

“Get on with your breakfast like a good boy, do,” said his mother, and his father said,  “You stick to the egg, old man, and look sharp about it.”

“But look at them—look at them all hopping,” he cried. “They don’t keep still not for a minute. Do you think they’re hungry, father?”

Cheek-a-cheep-cheep-cheek! cried the sparrows.

“Best postpone it perhaps till next week,” said Mr. B., “and trust to luck they’re still to be had then.”

“Yes, perhaps that would be wiser,” said Mrs. B.

Mr. B. picked another plum out of his paper.

“Have you bought any of those controlled dates yet?”

“I managed to get two pounds yesterday,” said Mrs. B.

“Well a date pudding’s a good thing,” said Mr. B. And they looked across at each other and there floated between them a dark round pudding covered with creamy sauce. “It would be a nice change, wouldn’t it?” said Mrs. B.

Outside on the grey frozen grass the funny eager sparrows hopped and fluttered. They were never for a moment still. They cried, flapped their ungainly wings. Little B., his egg finished, got down, took his bread and marmalade to eat at the window.

“Do let us give them some crumbs,” he said. “Do open the window, father, and throw them something. Father, please!”

“Oh, don’t nag, child,” said Mrs. B., and his father said—“Can’t go opening windows, old man. You’d get your head bitten off.”

“But they’re hungry,” cried Little B., and the sparrows’ little voices were like ringing of little knives being sharpened. Cheek-a-cheep-cheep-cheek! they cried.

Little B. dropped his bread and marmalade inside the china flower pot in front of the window. He slipped behind the thick curtains to see better, and Mr. and Mrs. B. went on reading about what you could get now without coupons—no more ration books after May—a glut of cheese—a glut of it—whole cheeses revolved in the air between them like celestial bodies.

Suddenly as Little B. watched the sparrows on the grey frozen grass, they grew, they changed, still flapping and squeaking. They turned into tiny little boys, in brown coats, dancing, jigging outside, up and down outside the window squeaking, “Want something to eat, want something to eat!” Little B. held with both hands to the curtain. “Father,” he whispered, “Father! They’re not sparrows. They’re little boys. Listen, Father!” But Mr. and Mrs. B. would not hear. He tried again. “Mother,” he whispered. “Look at the little boys. They’re not sparrows, Mother!” But nobody noticed his nonsense.

“All this talk about famine,” cried Mr. B., “all a Fake, all a Blind.”

With white shining faces, their arms flapping in the big coats, the little boys danced. “Want something to eat—want something to eat.”

“Father,” muttered Little B. “Listen, Father! Mother, listen, please!”

“Really!” said Mrs. B. “The noise those birds are making! I’ve never heard such a thing.”

“Fetch me my shoes, old man,” said Mr. B.

Cheek-a-cheep-cheep-cheek! said the sparrows.

Now where had that child got to? “Come and finish your nice cocoa, my pet,” said Mrs. B.

Mr. B. lifted the heavy cloth and whispered, “Come on, Rover,” but no little dog was there.

“He’s behind the curtain,” said Mrs. B.

“He never went out of the room,” said Mr. B.

Mrs. B. went over to the window, and Mr. B. followed. And they looked out. There on the grey frozen grass, with a white white face, the little boy’s thin arms flapping like wings, in front of them all, the smallest, tiniest was Little B. Mr. and Mrs. B. heard his voice above all the voices, “Want something to eat, want something to eat.”

Somehow, somehow, they opened the window. “You shall! All of you. Come in at once. Old man! Little man!”

But it was too late. The little boys were changed into sparrows again, and away they flew—out of sight—out of call.

A Suburban Fairy Tale (1917)
by Katherine Mansfield (1888 – 1923)
From: Something Childish and Other Stories

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More in: Archive M-N, Katherine Mansfield, Mansfield, Katherine


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