Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
( by Jack Gilbert )
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
( by Jack Gilbert )
Ещё одна песня ( обещала же) - о полётах.
О том, что ... a мне летать охота ... (с)
О том, что ... a мне летать охота ... (с)
Или - полёты во сне и наяву? (с)
( об этом - щемящая поэзия наших современников - Американцев.
Читаем внимательно?
Спасибо.)
Песня - замечательная.
Трогательная.
Трогательная.
« We Can Fly Away »
Она звучала - саундтреком - в известном здешнем кино:
« Song "We Can Fly Away" was the theme song in the 1999 made for TV movie The Magical Legend of the Leprechauns, which also featured The Who's Roger Daltrey in an acting role.»
«Emma Townshend (born 1969) is an English writer, journalist, musician and lecturer, and the elder daughter of The Who's Pete Townshend. She has taught courses since being a postgraduate at Cambridge in 1994, most recently for the Department of Continuing Education in Oxford.»
Итак.
Слушаем? Любуемся?
Emma Townshend.
They loved each other...
until that day...
when he told her not to love him...
and started to cry.
( by Ahmad Afaneh )
until that day...
when he told her not to love him...
and started to cry.
( by Ahmad Afaneh )
I have always been certain
Things are not always what they seem
Things are not always what they seem
Though the heavens stop turning
I'll be holding on to our dream
I'll be holding on to our dream
We can fly away, fly away
No more doubt, we'll have nothing left to say
Fly away, fly away
Fly away, fly away
From the darkness to the sun
Let our spirits be as one
Let our spirits be as one
You heard
My Word
My Word
My Hope
My Call
My Call
We can fly away over
You gave
Your Hand
You gave
Your Hand
Your Heart
Your All
Your All
We can fly away over it all
In our magical moment
In our magical moment
You reached out and touched the real me
Now there's no storm before us
As strong as the love we both feel
We can fly away, fly away
We can fly away, fly away
If we give our love, love will come our way
Fly away, fly away
Fly away, fly away
From the darkness to the sun
Let our spirits be as one
Let our spirits be as one
You Heard
My Word
My Word
My Hope
My Call
My Call
We can fly away over
You gave
Your Hand
You gave
Your Hand
Your Heart
Your All
Your All
We can fly away over it all
Fly away over
You Heard
You Heard
My Word
My Hope
My Call
My Hope
My Call
We can fly away over
You gave
Your Hand
You gave
Your Hand
Your Heart
Your All
Your All
We can fly away over it all
Вот такая славная, лучезарная песенка.
А на самом деле: Can we fly away over it all ?
*виновато улыбнулась*
К странице / теме - совершенно потрясающая живопись
( в нежных, смятенных сюрреалистичных мотивах)
современного Вьетнамского художника Duy Huyn.
Летают ... Видите, да?
Летают ... Видите, да?
« Vietnamese born artist Duy Huynh’s poetic and contemplative acrylic paintings symbolically reflect geographical and cultural displacement. Drawing inspiration from a variety of storytellers in formats that range from music and movies to ancient folklore and comic book adventures, Duy creates his own narratives of the human condition. In his paintings, ethereal characters maintain a serene, precarious balance, often in a surreal or dreamlike setting. With his figures, Duy explores motion along with emotion in order to portray not only the beauty of the human form, but also the triumph of the human spirit. Images that recur, such as boats, trains, suitcases, and anything with the ability of flight relate to travel, whether physical or spiritual. While much of Duy’s work is deeply personal, his clever and often times humorous use of symbolism and wordplay invites the viewer to
create their own storyline.
Duy Huynh has a gift. He's long had this gift, but has, in the past, perhaps
shared it too abundantly, spread it too thinly over Charlotte. His murals
and paintings, on walls and on canvas, have graced bars, cafes, lounges,
friends' houses and hole-in-the-wall galleries. But Duy has consolidated and
moved uptown. Kind of.
Duy Huynh (pronounced YEE WEN) is now showing his exceptional paintings at
Center of the Earth Gallery in NoDa through April 24. Center of the Earth is
center of the universe in the North Davidson area, NoDa, this city's oldest
fringe art community and newest real estate spike. NoDa has only recently
been stricken with the pox of civility, and is blessed with a newfound
acceptance by Charlotte's button-down boys. The developers and real estate
agents have descended in force. This can either breathe new life, or a slow
gentrified death, into a once ragged community, just as a legitimate gallery
affiliation can be the ginseng, or the hemlock, for a homegrown, bona fide
talent like Huynh.
Duy Huynh is special. His paintings are internal and emotive, which is not
unusual, but he's also a genuinely talented painter, which is unusual. His
paintings are imbued with a seldom seen charismatic quality, a quality that
can't be gained through good reviews, a great gallery, or boatloads of hype.
It's the appeal that is expressed by the many who come to see the show and
ask about the artist and buy the work. Except for a few paintings, the show
was sold out on opening night. That's extremely rare in Charlotte.
All artists create new worlds, alternate worlds, attached, in varying
degrees, to our shared reality. The artists' worlds are literal, symbolic,
allegorical, historical, fantastical and occasionally hysterical. They are
shallow or deep, riveting or revolting, lame, tame and wild. Some create new
worlds we enjoy staring into, but there are precious few who can lure us in
to stay. Very good artists create a world that pricks deep enough to draw us
inside the door and keep us for an extended visit. This artist does that.
Duy makes strange, forbidding and forlorn places seductive; he paints
haunted houses homey enough make our own.
"Origamic Dreams" is a low luster green sky pushing down on a dark
blue/green river. Floating on the low waterline is a torpedo gondola with a
silhouetted figure standing astern, a push pole in hand. Ahead of him, a
dimly glowing lantern dangles suspended on the bow. Behind and around the
man is a faint pulse of light that accentuates the lonesomeness of the man
and the river. Above the lone boater, the dark sky is pierced by eight
origami seagulls. The gulls fly with wings spread wide or pushing down, in
random formation, apparently directionless. The birds are folded paper,
constructs from a gentle hand, apparitions. The white birds interrupt a dark
and silent world, offering illumination but no identifiable direction for
the gondolier.
Huynh employs old-fashioned "painterliness," a mastery of material use
crucial -- and often ignored -- to the practice of canvas painting. The
artist's message, whatever it is, is best received when the artist's use of
the paint media is good enough to avoid drawing attention to itself. Like
any good artist -- musician, storyteller, poet -- Huynh wraps you into his
world seamlessly. His techniques -- his use of color, texture, light and
dark, and perspective -- are invisibly masterful. He reels us in; he uses
paint like Cormac McCarthy uses words.
Duh Huynh likes women. One woman rides on a jester's back, another stands
alone in a red forest lit by fireflies, another plays violin perched on a
branch in a yellow sky. Winged women float across the twilight sleeping, and
one woman walks on water. Many of these paintings of women are portraits of
willing aloneness, contemplative and attentive states of mind borne from an
untold story. Looking at these paintings is like waiting for a fable to be
told.
"Home" is a two-panel painting of a flaccid faced, expressionless man, eyes
shadowed by the brim of his bowler, his face pocked, pale and unreadable. A
woman sits in a high-backed chair on the man's hat, staring into a fishbowl
she holds in one hand. A dog shares the hat with the woman and bays at the
crescent moon overhead. The assembly of characters offers little hope for
translation. It is as surreal as Duy Huynh gets. Like Rene Magritte's
assemblages, which imply reasonableness but deliver vertigo, the painting at
worst is only inoffensively inscrutable. At best, like Magritte, Duchamp and
sometimes Dali, Huynh's painting explores man's curious existential state of
being, simultaneously hapless, comic, tragic and profound.
This artist risks falling into the trap of the self-consciously forlorn
artist, the image best illustrated by the famous painting of a man holding a
human skull in his hand, peering into the black sockets, contemplating his
own death, or death generally. Mortality is a bitch, but dwelling on
mortality, and her sober sisters -- abandonment, directionlessness and
isolation from God -- is a nasty trap for any potentially self-absorbed
artist. I trust Huynh's themes will grow and expand and encompass
alternative states of mind. God forbid he tarry long in a Blue Period.
alone in a red forest lit by fireflies, another plays violin perched on a
branch in a yellow sky. Winged women float across the twilight sleeping, and
one woman walks on water. Many of these paintings of women are portraits of
willing aloneness, contemplative and attentive states of mind borne from an
untold story. Looking at these paintings is like waiting for a fable to be
told.
"Home" is a two-panel painting of a flaccid faced, expressionless man, eyes
shadowed by the brim of his bowler, his face pocked, pale and unreadable. A
woman sits in a high-backed chair on the man's hat, staring into a fishbowl
she holds in one hand. A dog shares the hat with the woman and bays at the
crescent moon overhead. The assembly of characters offers little hope for
translation. It is as surreal as Duy Huynh gets. Like Rene Magritte's
assemblages, which imply reasonableness but deliver vertigo, the painting at
worst is only inoffensively inscrutable. At best, like Magritte, Duchamp and
sometimes Dali, Huynh's painting explores man's curious existential state of
being, simultaneously hapless, comic, tragic and profound.
This artist risks falling into the trap of the self-consciously forlorn
artist, the image best illustrated by the famous painting of a man holding a
human skull in his hand, peering into the black sockets, contemplating his
own death, or death generally. Mortality is a bitch, but dwelling on
mortality, and her sober sisters -- abandonment, directionlessness and
isolation from God -- is a nasty trap for any potentially self-absorbed
artist. I trust Huynh's themes will grow and expand and encompass
alternative states of mind. God forbid he tarry long in a Blue Period.
Huynh's single best painting here is less alluring and comforting than the
others; it's also the most expensive and one of the few yet to be sold.
"Blanket" strays from the artist's usual exploration of the isolated figure
plugged into a strange -- either hospitable or forbidding -- environment. He
doesn't have the moody/misty/melancholy thing going on here. "Blanket" is
divided into about 25 low luster squares, mostly dirt brown, earth red and
pale lime green, all with the dull glow of a firefly in fog. Painted in
typeset font across the canvas is: "the world is kind of cold and the
rhythm's my blanket." The words ride above the neck of the sound horn on an
old Victrola record player. Other images dot the surface of the canvas:
clocks, a crown, an hourglass, a rocket and a hummingbird. Old still
photographs display in sequence a naked woman climbing under a blanket. A
primary lesson from an old text explaining three-dimensional perspective is
pasted to the canvas. Playing card symbols -- club, spade and heart -- are
painted in the luminous squares.
others; it's also the most expensive and one of the few yet to be sold.
"Blanket" strays from the artist's usual exploration of the isolated figure
plugged into a strange -- either hospitable or forbidding -- environment. He
doesn't have the moody/misty/melancholy thing going on here. "Blanket" is
divided into about 25 low luster squares, mostly dirt brown, earth red and
pale lime green, all with the dull glow of a firefly in fog. Painted in
typeset font across the canvas is: "the world is kind of cold and the
rhythm's my blanket." The words ride above the neck of the sound horn on an
old Victrola record player. Other images dot the surface of the canvas:
clocks, a crown, an hourglass, a rocket and a hummingbird. Old still
photographs display in sequence a naked woman climbing under a blanket. A
primary lesson from an old text explaining three-dimensional perspective is
pasted to the canvas. Playing card symbols -- club, spade and heart -- are
painted in the luminous squares.
This is Huynh's only painting in which the content keeps up with the surface
treatment and moody atmospherics. "Blanket" delivers more clues, a
literalness more viable and interesting than what we get from the lone
figures elsewhere on the walls. This painting is less romantically
appealing, more troublesome and challenging. Where his other paintings woo,
this one taunts.
It will take a leap of faith to take this painting home, as it would appear
to take a leap of faith to gamble on this graffiti and cartoon-inspired
artist three years ago. A buyer will have to be as bold as the artist is
talented, and must gamble Huynh will himself keep the faith and grow,
willing and wide-eyed, into the future. There are worse bets.»
treatment and moody atmospherics. "Blanket" delivers more clues, a
literalness more viable and interesting than what we get from the lone
figures elsewhere on the walls. This painting is less romantically
appealing, more troublesome and challenging. Where his other paintings woo,
this one taunts.
It will take a leap of faith to take this painting home, as it would appear
to take a leap of faith to gamble on this graffiti and cartoon-inspired
artist three years ago. A buyer will have to be as bold as the artist is
talented, and must gamble Huynh will himself keep the faith and grow,
willing and wide-eyed, into the future. There are worse bets.»
(BY SCOTT LUCAS)
I travel into your liquid eyes this evening
Your smile just makes my grey day bright
Touch, with a feeling more than closeness
Tenderly coaxing the gentle flower to bloom.
Your smile just makes my grey day bright
Touch, with a feeling more than closeness
Tenderly coaxing the gentle flower to bloom.
I taste your sweeter than honey lips now
Your beating heart makes mine miss a beat
Loving, with a passion more than blood
Tingling temptation as the petals open now.
Your beating heart makes mine miss a beat
Loving, with a passion more than blood
Tingling temptation as the petals open now.
I feel your body closer than skin tonight
Your fingers desire claw me to you again
Passion, flying together in time and space
Deafening tranquillity as two become one.
( by Ian Beckett )
Your fingers desire claw me to you again
Passion, flying together in time and space
Deafening tranquillity as two become one.
( by Ian Beckett )
