“At particular times, at great deal of stupid people have a great deal of stupid money.” Walter Bagellot, economist, 1859.
In May, at Christie’s Americas auction house, the above “cubist masterpiece” by Pablo Picasso, “Nu au Plateau de Sculpteur (Nude, Green Leaves and Bust),” set a new world record as the world’s most expensive artwork, it was sold at auction for $106.5 million dollars.
What book, play, or movie, that have you seen/read recently, can you recommend?
What is your favorite work of art that you own.
I have a print of American painter Andrew Wyeth’s “Christina’s World” on my living room wall. It is a bit sad, and I often wondered what draws me to it. I first saw it at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. I now realize that the women in the painting represents my mother. She had a heart condition, and spent much of her life in hospitals, or confined to her bedroom. The world of Wyeth’s Christina was the farm house on the horizon. For my mother it was her bedroom.
William Shakespeare – Macbeth – Soliloquy – Act 5 Scene 5
Performed by Sir Ian McKellen – 1976
She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
E. E. Cummings reads his poem “Somewhere I Have Never Travelled”
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands