suigenerisstuff

[suigenerisstuff]

Die Schachspieler (1831), Moritz Retzsch

[suigenerisstuff]

glad to be on my own

[suigenerisstuff]

on today's outing I came into contact with the production material from the rca victor at casa edison rio de janeiro! (original song btw)

Lyrics:

If only I were that necklace of thine Would guard thy form, this fate'd be mine Come nightfall thou wouldst set me free, From this sad torment, two joys to see: The clasp would snap at thy graceful nape On the oaken bench wouldst thou me drape, Before the old piano, I would bring Heaven's poetry, like stars that sing Thou wouldst sleep, wrapped in sandalwood's Pure perfumed vow, and if I could With such verses a dream I might compose Yet, being mute, for thee, I were doze And thou wouldst wake amidst thy sleep Sometimes disturbing thy poise so deep That when longing haunts thy sweet dreams Thou wouldst weep before thy schemes And thou might run to fetch the chain Perhaps to hold it just once again Wouldst press me tightly to thy breast And we'd share one bed for our rest.

[suigenerisstuff]

"So writing is the way of those who use words as bait: the word catching what is not a word. When that non-word takes the bait, something has been written. Once you've fished between the lines, it could be easy to throw the word away. But then the analogy stops: the non-word, by taking the bait, has incorporated it. What saves you is reading ‘absent-mindedly’."

Clarice Listpector

[suigenerisstuff]

Christ and Saint Thomas by Verrocchio, Orsanmichele, Florence

made in the time of a tea

[suigenerisstuff]

Women. From 'The Waverley pictorial dictionary : Wheeler, Harold Felix Baker', 1877 - 19xx

[suigenerisstuff]

The Dreamer

Unpublished Frontispiece for Baudelaire’s ‘Les Fleurs du Mal’ (1857), etching by Félix Bracquemond.

[suigenerisstuff]

Marriage of Heaven and Earth, by Norman Lindsay (1879–1969)

A celestial struggle etched in light and shadow whispers of the yearning for transcendence, a sacred union that defies the weight of mortal constraint. A man reaches toward the heavens, lifting a form that clings to hope. The sacred union is not bound by the fragile threads of the fleeting promises of earthly desires, but it is a bond forged in surrender, where the self dissolves in a sea and only love remains, like the angel’s hand is an act of defiance against the pull of pride and material hunger—a leap into the ineffable. Outstretched arms, unfurls wings, the silent of the human form, who kisses in closed eyes, caught between the abyss and the stars. It is a reminder that true union is not spoken but felt, not told but known in the marrow, in the spirit. This tableau, caught between ascent and descent, seems to mirror the soul in a very platonic journey.

Power relations flow beneath these themes. Differing from the common historical interpretations of gender symbolism in art, here the man is not represented as death, a fallen angel or other figures of temptation, impetuosity or secularity , nor the woman as a passive figure. The man does not dominate but lifts. The darker force beside, who tries to clutch with possessive intent, is a shadow of dominion—the very antithesis of the sacred union. But is this dichotomy inevitable, or even fair? Such interpretations often bind us to traditions of thought that divide rather than unite. What if this is no dichotomy at all but an interplay of forces within every soul? Perhaps the man and the woman are not distinct beings but facets of one essence—the striving and the surrender, the human and the divine. The man’s ascent does not diminish his divinity, just as the woman’s grace does not preclude her struggle.

Here, we glimpse the wisdom of ancient myths: the dance of Shiva and Shakti, the eternal embrace of Yin and Yang. It is a call to relinquish control, to meet the other as an equal in the vast, uncharted expanse of love. It is the ultimate act of faith: to leap into the unknown, trusting that love will bear you for your corresponding sky.

Text by @suigenerisstuff

[suigenerisstuff]

From J. W. Westlake's book 'How to Write Letters' (1876), Chapter IV: The Literature of Letters, Section I: A Bird's-Eye View of the Field of Letters

[suigenerisstuff]

Women. From 'The Waverley pictorial dictionary : Wheeler, Harold Felix Baker', 1877 - 19xx

[suigenerisstuff]

Carpe Diem

Doodle found in page 367 of 379 of this paper manuscript from 1396. A probatio pennae is a sign that the copyist or a reader made in order to test the quill. From the Engelbert Stiftsbibliothek, cod.339.

[suigenerisstuff]

Diderot et l'abbé Barthélémy : dialogue philosophique inédit, 1912, Paris : A. Messein

"For me, a table is just a table, a chair is just a chair, bread is just bread, wine is just wine. I can't tell you how much this lack of faith worries me, how much it obsesses, upsets, poisons and tortures my days and nights, and how much I lose the desire to eat and drink."

Denis Diderot

[suigenerisstuff]

À Celle qui est trop gaie

From Le poéte maudit, Charles Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal (1857)

Your head, your gestures, and your air Are lovely as a landscape; smiles Rimple upon your face at whiles Like winds in the clear sky up there.

The grumpy passers that you graze Are dazzled by the radiant health, And the illimitable wealth Your arms and shoulders seem to blaze. The glaring colours that, in showers, Clash in your clothes with such commotion, In poets' minds suggest the notion Of a mad ballet-dance of flowers. These garish dresses illustrate Your spirit, striped with every fad. O madwoman, whom, quite as mad, I love as madly as I hate. Sometimes in gardens, seeking rest, Where I have dragged my soul atonic, I've felt the sun with gaze ironic Tearing the heart within my breast. The spring and verdure, dressed to stagger, Humiliate me with such power That I have punished, in a flower, The insolence of Nature's swagger. And so, one night, I'd like to sneak, When night has tolled the hour of pleasure, A craven thief, towards the treasure Which is your person, plump and sleek. To punish your bombastic flesh, To bruise your breast immune to pain, To farrow down your flank a lane Of gaping crimson, deep and fresh. And, most vertiginous delight! Into those lips, so freshly striking And daily lovelier to my liking — Infuse the venom of my sprite.

[suigenerisstuff]

recitals and more

[suigenerisstuff]

La Saltarelle (1800s), Dominique Louis Papety

[suigenerisstuff]

Le Bain (1894), Félix Vallotton

[suigenerisstuff]

"Night Moths" by William Baxter Closson

the image had me very creative, so I composed this.