I hate to say it, but I took one look at this and thought, "Actually, I'd probably give it a shot".
I may have discovered the reason I can't seem to lose any weight.
That and the sitting-around-on-my-butt-all-the-time thing.
(Actually, mostly the second thing.)
I've more or less got through my horrible jet-lag sleep timetable screw-up problem, and my back seems finally to have recovered. So I've got no excuses left not to be at the gym every day.
Except... every day?! Srsly?
~ * ~
OK, I've got an embarrassing secret to admit: I like Chagall.
I know, I know, he's not with the realist programme, and I am betraying a modernist streak that most people would not really credit to me, but well, there you are. I look at his paintings and I see something Real. Frequently, it's something that I don't find in a lot of the new classical and contemporary realists doing the work now.
The floating wiggly people, the angels and purple chickens and dancing goats, the winged cows playing fiddles, the magic rabbis in snowy Russian villages... it all speaks to me about my inner symbolist dream world. Can't help it.
~
1 comment:
Some "new classical/realist" paintings I see are too... photographic, almost. Too intent on representing reflected light rather than the essence of the thing. Those old Dutch still lifes make every grape, flower, and asparagus spear glow with "this-ness."
It's the same with some of the "new formalist" poetry: Timothy Steele, for instance, can do meter and rhyme, but his stuff is so rationalist, like someone's prejudiced idea of the Augustans, that I don't want to read it. It misses the music and strangeness of Donne, Keats, Yeats, Auden...
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