Fleurs du Mal Magazine
Or see the index
Stedelijk Museum Schiedam presenteert dit najaar Adya en Otto. Pioniers binnen de avant-garde, een tentoonstelling over het bijzondere leven en werk van het kunstenaarsechtpaar Otto van Rees (1884-1957) en Adya van Rees-Dutilh (1876-1959).
Ze zijn in hun vroege jaren, als pril gezin, omringd door bekende kunstenaars als Arp, Mondriaan en Picasso. In deze tijd leveren zij een unieke bijdrage aan beeldbepalende stromingen zoals dada en kubisme en het ontstaan van abstracte kunst. Adya en Otto waren al tijdens hun leven bekend in toonaangevende kringen van kenners en kunstenaars. Toch is hun werk nog relatief onbekend bij het grote publiek.
Als wegbereiders van de 20ste-eeuwse moderne kunst krijgen deze kunstenaars in Stedelijk Museum Schiedam alsnog een eerbetoon. Met ruim zeventig werken uit hun pionierende jaren is voor het eerst sinds bijna vijftig jaar een groot overzicht van Adya en Otto samen in een tentoonstelling te zien. Met speciale aandacht voor Adya, die als vrouwelijke kunstenaar in de door mannen gedomineerde kunstgeschiedenis van de twintigste eeuw niet de waardering heeft gekregen die ze verdient.
Adya Dutilh (1876 – 1959) en Otto van Rees (1884 – 1957) ontmoeten elkaar rond 1902 in Blaricum waar Otto’s vader een landbouwkolonie heeft gesticht. Adya is acht jaar ouder dan Otto en heeft gedegen teken- en schilderlessen gevolgd in Brussel. Otto maakt zijn HBS-opleiding niet af, maar krijgt wel schilderlessen. Op aanraden van kunstenaar Jan Toorop vertrekt Otto in 1904 naar Parijs, al snel gevolgd door Adya. Daar wonen ze, te midden van internationale avant-garde kunstenaars, in het ateliergebouw Bateau-Lavoir in Montmartre en later op diverse adressen in kunstenaarswijk Montparnasse.
Publicatie Otto & Adya. Pioniers binnen de avant-garde: Bij de tentoonstelling verschijnt de publicatie Otto & Adya van Rees. Pioniers binnen de avant-garde, van de auteur Irène Lesparre op initiatief van de Van Rees Stichting in samenwerking met Waanders Uitgevers. Het boek is gericht op de periode waarin het werk van zowel Otto als Adya een dynamische ontwikkeling naar abstractie doormaakt, voortkomend uit cloisonnisme, kubisme en dada. De aandacht die onder andere besteed wordt aan de reacties op hun werk door recensenten, publiek en kunstbroeders schept een duidelijk beeld van hun pionierspositie. Prijs €24,95.
Adya en Otto
Pioniers binnen de avant-garde
Stedelijk Museum Schiedam
28 september 2024 t/m 2 maart 2025
Stedelijk Museum Schiedam
Hoogstraat 112
3111 HL Schiedam
+31 (0)10 246 3666
info@stedelijkmuseumschiedam.nl
www.stedelijkmuseumschiedam.nl
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: - Book News, - Bookstores, Adya & Otto van Rees, Archive Q-R, Art & Literature News, Dada, Dadaïsme, Exhibition Archive, Expressionism, Expressionisme, Kubisme, Modernisme
Bannières de mai
Aux branches claires des tilleuls
Meurt un maladif hallali.
Mais des chansons spirituelles
Voltigent parmi les groseilles.
Que notre sang rie en nos veines,
Voici s’enchevêtrer les vignes.
Le ciel est joli comme un ange.
L’azur et l’onde communient.
Je sors. Si un rayon me blesse
Je succomberai sur la mousse.
Qu’on patiente et qu’on s’ennuie
C’est trop simple. Fi de mes peines.
je veux que l’été dramatique
Me lie à son char de fortunes
Que par toi beaucoup, ô Nature,
– Ah moins seul et moins nul ! – je meure.
Au lieu que les Bergers, c’est drôle,
Meurent à peu près par le monde.
Je veux bien que les saisons m’usent.
A toi, Nature, je me rends ;
Et ma faim et toute ma soif.
Et, s’il te plaît, nourris, abreuve.
Rien de rien ne m’illusionne ;
C’est rire aux parents, qu’au soleil,
Mais moi je ne veux rire à rien ;
Et libre soit cette infortune.
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
Bannières de mai
Derniers vers
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Arthur Rimbaud, Rimbaud, Arthur, Rimbaud, Arthur
Insomnia
Thin are the night-skirts left behind
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
That wavers with the spirit’s wind:
But in half-dreams that shift and roll
And still remember and forget,
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Our lives, most dear, are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now and now more clear.
To-night Love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.
Is there a home where heavy earth
Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
Where water leaves no thirst again
And springing fire is Love’s new birth?
If faith long bound to one true goal
May there at length its hope beget,
My soul that hour shall draw your soul
For ever nearer yet.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
(1828 – 1882)
Insomnia
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, *The Pre-Raphaelites Archive, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Dante Gabriel
Départ
Assez vu. La vision s’est rencontrée à tous les airs.
Assez eu. Rumeurs des villes, le soir, et au soleil, et toujours.
Assez connu. Les arrêts de la vie. – Ô Rumeurs et Visions !
Départ dans l’affection et le bruit neufs !
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
Départ
Illuminations
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Arthur Rimbaud, Rimbaud, Arthur, Rimbaud, Arthur
La Chambrée de nuit
Rêve
On a faim dans la chambrée –
C’est vrai…
Émanations, explosions. Un génie :
« Je suis le gruère ! » –
Lefêbvre « Keller ! »
Le génie « Je suis le Brie ! » –
Les soldats coupent sur leur pain :
« C’est la vie ! »
Le génie. – « Je suis le Roquefort ! »
– « Ça s’ra not’ mort !… »
Je suis le gruère
Et le Brie !… etc.
Valse
On nous a joints, Lefèbvre et moi, etc.
Arthur Rimbaud
(1854 – 1891)
La Chambrée de nuit
Rêve
Derniers vers
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Editors Choice Archiv, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Arthur Rimbaud, Rimbaud, Arthur
Thaw
Blow through me wind
As you blow through apple blossoms…
Scatter me in shining petals over the passers-by…
Joyously I reunite… sway and gather to myself…
Sedately I walk by the dancing feet of children—
Not knowing I too dance over the cobbled spring.
O, but they laugh back at me,
(Eyes like daisies smiling wide open),
And we both look askance at the snowed-in people
Thinking me one of them.
Lola Ridge
(1873-1941)
Thaw
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Ridge, Lola
Spring Rain
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
I remembered a darkened doorway
Where we stood while the storm swept by,
Thunder gripping the earth
And lightning scrawled on the sky.
The passing motor busses swayed,
For the street was a river of rain,
Lashed into little golden waves
In the lamp light’s stain.
With the wild spring rain and thunder
My heart was wild and gay;
Your eyes said more to me that night
Than your lips would ever say….
I thought I had forgotten,
But it all came back again
To-night with the first spring thunder
In a rush of rain.
Sara Teasdale
(1884-1933)
Spring Rain
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Spring, Archive Q-R, Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Teasdale, Sara
Autumn
I dwell alone – I dwell alone, alone,
Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,
Gilded with flashing boats
That bring no friend to me:
O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,
O love-pangs, let me be.
Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone
And spices bear to sea:
Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,
Love-promising, entreating –
Ah! sweet, but fleeting –
Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.
Hush! the wind flags and fails –
Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand –
Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;
Their songs wake singing echoes in my land –
They cannot hear me moan.
One latest, solitary swallow flies
Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tossed,
Poor bird, shall it be lost?
Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,
With no kind eyes
To watch it while it dies,
Unguessed, uncared for, free:
Set free at last,
The short pang past,
In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.
Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
Some rent by thunder strokes,
Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze;
Fair fall my fertile trees,
That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.
A spider’s web blocks all mine avenue;
He catches down and foolish painted flies
That spider wary and wise.
Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
Betwixt boughs green with sap,
So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
I will not mar the web,
Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.
It shakes – my trees shake – for a wind is roused
In cavern where it housed:
Each white and quivering sail,
Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
Each maiden sings again –
Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm
Miles down my river to the sea
They float and wane,
Long miles away from me.
Perhaps they say: ‘She grieves,
Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower.’
Perhaps they say: ‘One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves.’
Perhaps they say: ‘One hour
More, and we stand,
Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!’
My trees are not in flower,
I have no bower,
And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.
Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830 – 1894)
Autumn
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Autumn, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Christina
On the morning of August 12, 2022, Salman Rushdie was standing onstage at the Chautauqua Institution, preparing to give a lecture on the importance of keeping writers safe from harm, when a man in black—black clothes, black mask—rushed down the aisle toward him, wielding a knife. His first thought: So it’s you. Here you are.
What followed was a horrific act of violence that shook the literary world and beyond. Now, for the first time, and in unforgettable detail, Rushdie relives the traumatic events of that day and its aftermath, as well as his journey toward physical recovery and the healing that was made possible by the love and support of his wife, Eliza, his family, his army of doctors and physical therapists, and his community of readers worldwide.
Knife is Rushdie at the peak of his powers, writing with urgency, with gravity, with unflinching honesty. It is also a deeply moving reminder of literature’s capacity to make sense of the unthinkable, an intimate and life-affirming meditation on life, loss, love, art—and finding the strength to stand up again.
#1 NATIONAL BESTSELLER • From Booker Prize winner Salman Rushdie, a searing, deeply personal account of enduring—and surviving—an attempt on his life thirty years after the fatwa that was ordered against him.
Salman Rushdie is the author of fifteen novels—Luka and the Fire of Life; Grimus; Midnight’s Children (for which he won the Booker Prize and the Best of the Booker); Shame; The Satanic Verses; Haroun and the Sea of Stories; The Moor’s Last Sigh; The Ground Beneath Her Feet; Fury; Shalimar the Clown; The Enchantress of Florence; Two Years, Eight Months, and Twenty-Eight Nights; The Golden House; Quichotte (which was shortlisted for the Booker Prize); and Victory City—and one collection of short stories: East, West. He has also published five works of nonfiction—The Jaguar Smile; Imaginary Homelands; Step Across This Line; Joseph Anton; and Languages of Truth—and coedited two anthologies, Mirrorwork and Best American Short Stories 2008. He is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters and a Distinguished Writer in Residence at New York University. A former president of PEN American Center, Rushdie was knighted in 2007 for services to literature.
Knife:
Meditations After an Attempted Murder
Author: Salman Rushdie
Publisher: Random House
April 16, 2024
Language: English
Hardcover: 224 pages
Price: $28.00
ISBN-10: 0593730240
ISBN-13: 978-0593730249
Dimensions: 5.73 x 0.91 x 8.53 inches
#1 in Censorship & Politics
#4 in Author Biographies
#60 in Memoirs (Books)
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: #Biography Archives, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Awards & Prizes, FDM in New York, Salman Rushdie
The Sleeping Beauty
Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile—
Though shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
And move, and breathe delicious sighs!
Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o’er her neck of snow:
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish—and fear to know!
She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast:
—And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!
Sleep on secure! Above control
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary!
Samuel Rogers
(1763 – 1855)
The Sleeping Beauty
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Grimm, Andersen e.o.: Fables, Fairy Tales & Stories
Summer
Winter is cold-hearted
Spring is yea and nay,
Autumn is a weather-cock
Blown every way:
Summer days for me
When every leaf is on its tree;
When Robin’s not a beggar,
And Jenny Wren’s a bride,
And larks hang singing, singing, singing,
Over the wheat-fields wide,
And anchored lilies ride,
And the pendulum spider
Swings from side to side,
And blue-black beetles transact business,
And gnats fly in a host,
And furry caterpillars hasten
That no time be lost,
And moths grow fat and thrive,
And ladybirds arrive.
Before green apples blush,
Before green nuts embrown,
Why, one day in the country
Is worth a month in town;
Is worth a day and a year
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion
That days drone elsewhere.
Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830 – 1894)
Summer
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: 4SEASONS#Summer, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R, Rossetti, Christina
Written at Midnight
While thro’ the broken pane the tempest sighs,
And my step falters on the faithless floor,
Shades of departed joys around me rise,
With many a face that smiles on me no more;
With many a voice that thrills of transport gave,
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave!
Samuel Rogers
(1763 – 1855)
Written at Midnight, 1786
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: # Classic Poetry Archive, Archive Q-R, Archive Q-R
Thank you for reading Fleurs du Mal - magazine for art & literature