Valentin's concert

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Valentin de Boulogne: The Concert, 1622-25

As a species of Italian baroque genre paintings, Roman tavern scenes are pretty much straightforward—boozers, card-cheats, pickpockets, loose women and the like. Valentin’s shot at Caravaggism however is totally mysterious.

Five musicians are gathered around a half-eaten meat pie which sits upon on a large chunk of funerary sculpture from antiquity. The violist and tenor at the left need a part book for the melody and words of the song. The child, and the guitarist and lutenist don’t need one; most Renaissance instrumentalists could improvise very capably.

In the foreground a young soldier fills another glass while a woman in the background chug-a-lugs a whole bottle. The three musicians on the right look up toward the viewer, as if responding to a  photographer who had come in to the room and asked to take their picture.

The picture suggests an allegory of some sort, but what does it really mean? If we knew what song or chanson they were singing, perhaps it would make sense to us. But we don’t, and so we must imagine the music for ourselves.

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London is still swinging

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The streets of East London may have been filled with riot and mayhem last week, but those participating will have performed their brief insurgency before the some of the finest street art in the world.

Spitalfields Life brings us an informative essay on the work of Malarky, who has his own blog elsewhere.

One of Banksy's most photographed creations is found in the same neighborhood, not to mention the elaborate animal portraits of Roa, which cover entire sides of buildings.

thanks flickr users bulent_yusu and londonstreetphoto; disclaimer.

The Terrace in the Snow

In the golden twilight the rain

Was like silk threads. During the night

It cleared. The wind fell. It grew

Colder. My covers felt damp

And cold. Without my knowing it,

The snow had drifted into

The room like heaps of salt. At

The fifth watch, in the first flush

Of dawn, I close the curtain

Of the study. During the

Rest of the night I listen

To the ice, warping the colored

Tiles of the roof. In the morning

I sweep the Northern terrace

And look out at Saddle Peak.

It is clear of clouds and I

Can see both summits. Above

The village in the morning

Sunlight, crows begin to circle.

The mud of the streets is covered

With white. No cart track has marked it.

Ice has turned the shop roofs to

White jade. Snow has filled the doorways

With rice. The last cicadas

Have long since gone to earth. Now

They will have to dig a thousand

Feet deeper. Some clouds pile up,

The color of dried moss. My

Chest bothers me again.

I feel I have lost the

Ability to write.

The icicles on the caves

Drone in the wind like the swords

Of murderers.

                                    — Su Tung P’o

From One Hundred Poems from the Chinese, by Kenneth Rexroth.

Young readers

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Lewis Hine: Boy studying, ca. 1924

Frans Oerder: Meisje wat lees (Girl reading).

Karl Mueller: Lesende junge Frau an einem Tisch
beim Licht der Petroleumlampe

It's what people do. They read and write. The Internet is just another way to do it.

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