Monday, July 18, 2011
F Hanfstaengl, after a painting by GCR von Max, 1869
This is a print recording a lost painting by Gabriel von Max of 1869, painted in Munich. An anatomist meditates, chin in hand, on the body of a young, beautiful woman, pulling back the cloth that covers her body in order to gaze upon her. On the desk beside him are open books, a lamp, and human and animal skulls. As well as being tools of study, they function as symbols of death, as does the moth that has alighted next to the cadaver.
Gabriel Max was himself an anatomist, philosopher and naturalist as well as a painter very well known in his time for his singeries (paintings of monkeys performing human tasks). His paintings evoked the metaphysical implications of animal and human life.
The present picture could be regarded as bordering on necrophilia, and would no doubt have been condemned by the British art experts of the day, but the enormous popularity of such morbid pictures as Arnold Böcklin's 'Island of the dead' (1880) attest to the interest in pictures of such themes, however unhealthy they may be considered.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Dance of the Hanged Men - Arthur Rimbaud
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.
Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune!
And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms:
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.
Hurray! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone!
You can cut capers on such a long stage!
Hop! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing!
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles!
Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out!
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat:
The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin:
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.
Hurrah! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball!
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests:
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...
Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae:
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here!
Oh! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse:
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,
Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones!
On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.
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