#hans steiner

[lascitasdelashoras]

Hans Steiner, Swiss Mountain Guides (1938)

[venustapolis]

Autumn Sun (Hans Steiner, 1890)

[dijeh]

Ceremonial shield

The original core of the arms and armoury collection came from the Château de Ribeaupierre, in Ribeauvillé. These pieces came to the Unterlinden convent having been seized during the French Revolution. Edmond Fleischhauer (1812-1896), who was president of the Société Schongauer from 1885, considerably expanded the collection through purchases and then the bequest of his own collection in 1896. Beyond their technical and historical interest, some of these objects also possess an aesthetic dimension, such as this remarkable ceremonial shield, with its decoration of genre scenes relating to the seasons. This circular shield, also known as a roundel, is understood to have belonged to a member of the Ribeaupierre family, having been given to him as a gift by Duke Ludwig of Württemberg-Montbéliard (1554-1593). The painting on this ceremonial shield is attributed to Hans Steiner, one of the duke’s court painters. The convex surface is divided into four quarters by the elongated silhouettes of trees rising up towards a central radiant sun. Each section illustrates one of the seasons, the names of which are stated in the labels around the rim, as well as the types of hunting practiced at that time of year.

Référence Bois, cuir peint, ferrures métalliques

Artiste Atribué à Hans Steiner (actif à Stuttgart entre 1561 et 1610)

Année Vers 1590

Dimensions D. 59,6 cm ; pr. 11,5 cm

Statut Saisie révolutionnaire

Musée Unterlinden

[victusinveritas]

Hans Steiner aka Hans Adolf Steiner (Swiss, 1872-1955, b. Lenzburg, Switzerland, d. Aarau, Switzerland) - Autumn Sun (Bouclier de Parade), c. 1890, Paintings

[lacharmante]

Hans Steiner (1907–1962), Suisse.

[niftywaffle]

They (well, most of them) have my heart❤️:)

[nerdyfangirlingbooks]

Everyone always cites the same characters as the reason their standards are so high but no one ever cites Rudy Steiner and therefore everyone else is wrong

[ender-cloud]

I just finished the book thief HOLY SHIT IM SHATTERED AND BROKEN!!

I have not cried this hard at a book i think ever, i had to take multiple breaks because i just couldn’t carry on i was so upset. I want to draw so much, the snowman scene especially.

The only downside is i had to read it for school but i still loved it! It was just harder to be motivated to read it (because i had to annotate it)

MAX AND RUDY ARE MY BOYS AND I WOULD’VE DONE ANYTHING TO PROTECT THEM. I wanted to hug them so bad dude. They were amazingly written, i loved their relationships with Liesel and I was so so heartbroken when Rudy died. (One fell first but the other fell harder was really shining through at the end there, specifically page 518 and im so sad because you know they would’ve grown old together)

Also Hans Huberman was better than i couldve ever imagined. I mean when i first started reading he gave me bad vibes but i was so so so wrong oh my god. I could’ve never expected him to be so amazing <3 as a Papa, and as a friend to the man who saved his life.

The only way i can sum up my feelings of this book was that one death quote “I have to say that although it broke my heart, I was, and still am, glad i was there.” Markus Zusak pg. 533

[mobilis-in-mobili]

Without Fear of Infamy, I Answer You.

A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR

I am haunted by humans.

When Death utters those words unto Liesel Meminger's soul, he did so, not as a replacement or a respite, but as the truth. The only true one he knew. The Reaper of Souls though he may be, he, just as humanity, has been witness to, of not part of, suffering. He has seen our race fall down to the depths of Dante's inferno and rise above. Then, through all of this, why must be himself, the Spectre of Spectres, fear, or rather, remember us, the colours that we are?

We are an ironic species, us. We act antithetical to that which we wish to do. We suffer for happiness, we fight for peace, just as we give to gain. We are as Machiavellian as chronologically feasible, that when The Book Thief asks Death thus of her book, which was nonetheless, mankind as a metaphor, "Could you understand it?", he falters, for that is perhaps the one thing he - let alone all of humanity - will never be truly capable of – understanding itself. We may someday conquer the stars, but never ourselves. We're enigmas, every one of us, for To Understand is To Define, and as Oscar Wilde wrote, To Define is To Limit, and doubtlessly the human race is aught but predictable, and naught but limitless.

We cannot know us. For we love, and in that, we are love.

When Death says he is haunted by us, he does mean it. He has seen us at our best, and our worst. He has seen us give bread to starved prisoners on an empty stomach. He has seen us bomb the cities of those of our own, purely for power, and lay waste to Heaven. He has seen is shelter the accursed, and cry over our dead. He has seen us accuse our parents of cowardice, treachery and infamy. But most of all, he marvels at our capability and occasional indifference at dying and killing alike – for an idea. For words. Because it is not what we are born as that shapes us, but what we endure, for words can and do bring us together, just as well as they can break us apart. 

Death is one who knows that the worst form of disability is in fact, Hatred, for there is no greater loss a soul knows than that of Love.

They say, "Nobody truly Dies", for their legacies live long and prosper long after they are gone. We can be all that we are, so long as we know and remember the people we were, for we are but amalgamations of the people we choose. And finally, when all is were, for we no longer are, those who love us will remember us, and perhaps, miss us. When English and German soldiers celebrated Christmas and played football together, they sung to the tune of Auld Lang Syne, "We're here because we're here", it doesn't mean that our existences are for a reason we know naught about, if not purely for the fact that we exist. It means, that for as long as we are alive in the hearts of men and women, we will Be, for that is what we all are in the end, what Death loves us for – a Story. And a Story never really dies so as long as it is told, does it?

We remain alive unto Death itself after we ourselves aren't.

"There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate." 

T. S Eliot could not have summed up the human race more beautifully when he wrote thus in his masterpiece, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. We create and destroy ourselves alike, and all indeed, to question why we are, and simultaneously stand by that which we believed in to affirm the same. And yet, amidst the chaos, we see order, and in that, hope. Men like Vincent van Gogh and Frederic Chopin, who have seen and known life at it's lowest, created such art that their pain and sorrow was turned into joyous hope, for they poured out their souls into that which they made, which inevitably rendered them gutwrenchingly beautiful. Bigger on the Inside, if you will. It only made sense, for they knew, that words and stories, though with neither a tangible beginning nor end, did exist, and in that, were loved and loved alike. The fact that what they poured out into their art could be resurrected, purely by trying to understand it for what it is, is nothing short of wondrous. We are that which can dream out loud.

Omnis Cellula E Cellula, after all.

Death is haunted by us, not for us being ironic in in existence alone, but truly, for us being ideas ourselves. We are such a beauteous species that we harbour upon the one Singularity that any life form, disregarding all barriers, can show unto its fellow consciousness, and that is Love. Death doesn't believe us to be ghosts. He believes us to be stories, and ideas, and only so, that our existences outlast us and culminate just as the final words of Liesel's book:

I have hated the words and

I have loved them,

and I hope I have made them right.

PS. Death believed, and does, that so long as there is life after death, there remains love, and that makes us immortal. Consciousness is not subjective to it's shell. And Love isn't something that we understand, because we cannot. It defines Everything. One could be infinitely brilliant at something, but upon failing to love it, would inevitably detest it. To Do and to Be, takes Love. And it isn't something that ends with death. It, unlike mundane finality, is forever, beyond the realms of Time. It passes, from the first running race in the mud, to the charcoal in the ears, to the book from the river, to the stolen apples, to the asking for a kiss though being indefinitely scared of it for he loved her too hard, to the acknowledgement that he Is no longer and neither will be, again, to the kissing of the dusty, bomb-hit lips, to the thinking of the boy with the hair the colour of lemons forever, just before she ceased to be – and moves on, beyond earthly existence, for there is no finality to Love. 

Indeed, to be a Story needs love, too. And Death himself, was one who felt an undefinable sadness to come and take Rudy Steiner away – for he knew, that his story could have been so much more – that he could have had more numbers than he did, for the boy with the bread deserved them, and he had Liesel, lollies and Love to live for.

You see? Even Death has a heart.

The Truth, of what Death loves us most for, and what it is within us that haunts him, is that amidst all adversity, beyond and against all rationale, we Hope. 

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

– Dylan Thomas

Godspeed.

[boopneedles]

I js finished the book thief and OMG. I did not know how much I was gonna cry until I was sobbing. It’s sad when all the characters die but when all the others die and the mc LIVES it’s on whole other level. I will not be getting over this for days. I am in mourning give me my black dress. Anyway, it’s rly good book so if you haven’t read it I highly recommend. Please come join me in my pain 😊

[debushit]

i’m on the last few pages of the book thief trying to be normal bc i’m in public

[livingwiththeinternet]

Hans Steiner, Autumn Sun (1890)

[pangeen]

" Burning Sunrise " //© Anton Steiner

Music: © Hans Zimmer - Cornfield Chase

[talonabraxas]

‘Ceremonial Shield’ by Hans Steiner from 1590