On December 2:

1779 Madeleine Sophie Barat, French saint, was born.

1805 Henry Wells, Founder of American Express, was born.

1862 USS Cairo sank on the Yazoo River, becoming the first armored ship to be sunk by an electrically detonated mine.

1863  Edvard Munch, Norwegian painter, was born.

Self Portrait with Skeleton Arm, 1895

1870  Joseph H. Rainey of South Carolina became the first black U.S. congressman.

1893 Edward G. Robinson, American actor, was born.

1900 Sammy Davis, Sr., American dancer, was born.

1901 Guglielmo Marconi received the first transatlantic radio signal at Signal Hill in St John’s, Newfoundland.

1911 Delhi replaced Calcutta as the capital of India.

1915  Frank Sinatra, American singer and actor, was born.

1917 The six o’clock swill began.

 1927  Robert Noyce, American inventor of the microship, was born.

1929 John Osborne, English dramatist, was born.

 1935  Lebensborn Project, a Nazi reproduction programme, was founded by Heinrich Himmler.

1938  Connie Francis, American singer, was born.

1940 – Dionne Warwick, American singer, was born.

1941  Adolf Hitler announced the extermination of the Jews at a meeting in the Reich Chancellery.

1948 Batang Kali Massacre – 14 members of the Scots Guards stationed in Malaysia allegedly massacred 24 unarmed civilians and set fire to the village.

1949 – Bill Nighy, English actor, was born.

1950  Paula Ackerman, the first woman appointed to perform rabbinical functions in the United States, led the congregation in her first services.

1963 Kenya gained its independence from the United Kingdom.

1964 Prime Minister Jomo Kenyatta became the first President of the Republic of Kenya.

1965 Will Carling, English rugby union footballer, was born.

1979  Rhodesia changed its name to Zimbabwe.

1982 Women’s peace protest at Greenham Common – 30,000 women held hands and formed a human chain around the 14.5 kilometres (9.0 mi) perimeter fence.

1988 The Clapham Junction rail crash killed thirty-five and injures hundreds after two collisions of three commuter trains.

1991  Russian Federation gained independence from the USSR.

2006 Peugeot produces its last car at the Ryton Plant signalling the end of mass car production in Coventry, formerly a major centre of the British motor industry.

Sourced from NZ HIstory Online & Wikipedia.

So here I  am, a bit lost and a little impatient.  I’ve begun to realize that I fail at most things I attempt, specifically college. There are only two weeks left until finals and most of my grades aren’t acceptable to me. I don’t know what I did to get in this position, I’ve never been like this and it’s killing me. It’s really too late to repair most of the damage I’ve done to my grades, I am however trying to improve them. I am just so mad at myself that it’s making me sick.

“I was walking down the road with two friends when the sun set; suddenly, the sky turned as red as blood. I stopped and leaned against the fence, feeling unspeakably tired. Tongues of fire and blood stretched over the bluish black fjord. My friends went on walking, while I lagged behind, shivering with fear. Then I heard the enormous, infinite scream of nature.”

What happened to me? I’ve been trying to figure that out. Why did I become such a slacker? I hate myself so much right now. The past few months have been the worst time of my life. I haven’t been myself, I’ve been depressed, anxious, and lonely for reasons I don’t fully understand. It’s just not like me to let any of my life problems interfere with school. Maybe it was bound to happen?

I’m only 20 years old but I feel like my life is passing me by. I don’t have any time to waste, and failing classes is not something I do. I am one of those people who have to plan things, and up until recently, I had the next 4 years of my life all laid out. I never expected things to change. I never expected me to change. I’ve learned a lot about life this past year and I’ve grown up quite a bit. Finally realizing that life isn’t easy is hard, and I am still accepting that. I will fix this. These broken days won’t last forever.

I know this is vague but this is my therapy. I’m letting it out..slowly.

Natt i St. Cloud. Edvard Munch

plec cateva zile din bucuresti. v-a deprimat campania? va las cu adevaratele angoase, le-am vazut la viena, le cunoasteti, nu?

(Edvard Munch and the Uncanny)

Angst. Edvard Munch

Abschied (Despartire). Christian Griepenkerl

Disparate de Miedo (Nebunia groazei). Francisco de Goya

Pesta Kommer (Vine ciuma). Theodor Kittelsen

Carceri d'invenzione. Giovanni Battista Piranesi

I was seated on the shore of Lake Michigan, perched on a rock with the lapping water just a few feet away. There was little wind and so the waves crested only when reaching the shore and I had a gentle rhythm lulling me into thought. My mind wandered to Edvard Munch’s Melancholy and I felt myself there. Perched with head in hands, I longed to find something to focus on. The trees in the distance; a wavering, dusk-shrouded building in a far-off city further down the coast; the details of the rocks beneath my feet.

Like the man in the work, I shrugged and let slide the mantle of everyday appearances and allowed myself, if only temporarily, to bring the raw emotions to the fore. I was not sad but sober, not depressed but pensive. Ah, the Frieze of Life as Munch called his works. A Poem about Life, Love and Death. To think of such things in the autumn air and to close ones eyes and be the painting.

In time, I stood and moved along, continuing my slow amble, thoughts turning further in my head.

Edvard Munch - Melancholy (1894/95)

Front of Envelope. Munch's "Puberty" and photo of Vaslav Nijinsky. Photographs, rubber stamps, paint, stamps.

Back of envelope. It opens to reveal the rest of the letter.

Letter to Rae Hallstrom.  Written on a recycled envelope.  Text reads:

7 November 2009

Dear Rae,

This note is in response to your recent letter about your fiction and your dream that your projects are your babies.  I’ve had the same dream (many times).  I thought I’d also say that we’re not only the mothers of our creative work.  In Munch’s painting “Puberty” I also see myself, my fear of vulnerability, nakedness.  It’s said that fiction is “the lie that tells the truth,” but I often think fiction is in no way a lie but the truth as the imagination sees it.  As for the photo of Nijinsky (who is on my mind because my poetry class just read the William Carlos Williams’s poem inspired by Nijinsky and because Theodore Roethke sought “the secret of Nijinsky”), he is there to represent freedom and courage.  In a recent letter to me, Wayne Barham writes about shredding an old manuscript of his because it was untrue in the most important sense of being untrue.  [see letter 39]. 

For both of us, I think, truth has little to do with what happened but more so with who we really are.  Authenticity.  All of our work must grow out of our vision of the world.  I believe what we have both come to realize is that the hardest thing about fiction is telling the truth.  Rae, it’s hard to do because we spend our whole lives hiding the truth, even to ourselves.  We must dance, like Nijinsky–even if others find our dance scandalous.  Learn from other stories but find your own truth, your voice.  Don’t write with a mind of how a story “should be” because then you are using your head too much!  My friend Wayne wrote of over-intellectualizing when he wrote.  But fictional truth comes from a much deeper place.  As I’m fond of telling people, I feel the truth in my gut. 

Tim O’Brien said it this way… You experience stories in your body, not your head.  As Wayne discovered, too much of the intellect kills fiction.  Write of what’s dear to you, Rae, and tell the truth.  Good luck with your writing life–love your babies but also dance, dance, dance. 

Heart, Theresa

La litografía Separación II, de Edvard Munch, fue robada a mediados de junio de una galería de Oslo. La Policía confirmó que la obra fue sustraída entre el 12 y el 25 de junio y que el robo no fue descubierto hasta que la galería se mudó de local y trasladó su colección a la nueva sede.

En los últimos años en Noruega ha habido más obras robadas: el 22 de agosto de 2004, dos enmascarados penetraron en el Museo Munch, en el centro de Oslo, en pleno día y amenazaron con una pistola a los guardas y a los visitantes para llevarse “El grito” y “La Madonna”.

Más info aquí.

I found out via @theartmarket on Twitter that another Edvard Munch has been stolen in Norway. The hand-coloured lithograph, titled “Historien”, was taken from Nyborgs Kunst on Thursday.

Seriously – what is it with Munch? Why is he always being stolen? He hardly got more than a passing reference on my art course but everyone seems to want a piece.

Having thought about this while looking at some of his work I think it might be because of his talent for expressing private sadness or struggle (as well as the allure of lax museum security and art as status symbol).

Edvard Munch - Weeping Nude, 1913

This talent reminds me of the work of Seiger Köder. He’s a German priest who uses paint to make the Christian message accessible. His art is rich and powerful, conveying intimate and touching moments in through understated gestures.

You can see the similarities particularly in the following images:

On the left is Edvard Munch’s ‘Love and Pain’ and on the right, Sieger Köder’s ‘Maternal Womb’.

Quin annus pos li spectaculari furtion del famós picturas «Li cria» e «Madonna» de Edvard Munch (1863-1944) ínconosset persones furtet un lithografie, colorat a manu, del norvego.

Secun declaration del policie, li furtardes durant li nocte ruptet un galerie de arte e desapparit con li pictura «Li historie», quel es un solitare. On taxa li valor ye ca. 2 milliones de krones (240.000 euros). Secun conviction del policie li furte esset commissionat.

Edvard Munch (12 December 1863 – 23 January 1944) was a Norwegian Symbolist painter, printmaker and an important forerunner of expressionistic art. His best-known composition, The Scream, is part of a series The Frieze of Life, in which Munch explored the themes of life, love, fear, death, and melancholy.

(…)

Munch’s art was highly personalized and he did little teaching. His “private” symbolism was far more personal than that of other Symbolist painters such as Gustave Moreau and James Ensor. Nonetheless, Munch was highly influential, particularly with the German Expressionists, who followed his philosophy, “I do not believe in the art which is not the compulsive result of Man’s urge to open his heart.” Many of his paintings, including The Scream, have universal appeal in addition to their highly personal meaning.

Munch’s works are now represented in numerous major museums and galleries in Norway and abroad. After the Cultural Revolution in the People’s Republic of China ended, Munch was the first Western artist to have his pictures exhibited at the National Gallery in Beijing. His cabin “the Happy House” was given to the municipality of Åsgårdstrand in 1944 and is now a small Munch museum. The inventory is still exactly as he left it.

Source and complete biography: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edvard_Munch

Le bel automne est propice aux changements. Le vert vire au jaune et au rouge, les fruits mûrs tombent, les fleurs fanées se dessèchent sous le soleil qui faiblit.

Cette métamorphose est accompagnée d’une certaine mélancolie, tantôt dépressive, tantôt abyssale.

La symphonie des couleurs et de la nature décrépite  ne manque pas d’exubérance. On sent la fin de la vie se rapprocher… et la chute dans l’interminable nuit hivernale… Glacée et infinie.

Une exubérance pas excessive. Une décadence maîtrisée quand on arrive au bord du précipice à pleine vitesse et on s’arrête à juste temps pour admirer la vue.

Pour goûter le fruit doux-amer du déséquilibre.

A person’s head would have to be the size and shape of a basketball to wear this mask. Ironically, Scandinavia was well represented this Halloween among trick or treating kids not by trolls but a stylized version of the “scream” character from Edvard Munch’s famous painting. I imagine a pedantic parent telling the kids, “What an interesting choice, this figure by early 21st century Norwegian artist Munch, a pictorial embodiment of modern anomie and anxiety!”

Essa ilustração inspirada na obra O Grito do artista norueguês Edvard Munch (1863 – 1944) é fantástica. Adoro coisas inteligentes desse tipo. Essa sem dúvida é a reação de muitos quando estão diante da porta do consultório odontológico. Uma pena, mas vale a piada.

Aqui eu não entro!

Image from http://www.edvard-munch.com/gallery/index.htm

The original German title for The Scream is “The Scream of Nature”.

In his journals, Munch describes the inspiration for this piece:

“I was walking along a path with two friends—the sun was setting—suddenly the sky turned blood red—I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence—there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city—my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety—and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.”

Painted at the end of the 19th Century, The Scream is an expressionist work. More about the emotion than the narrative, the viewer is meant to feel the same fear and anxiety as Munch. There are many theories about this painting (I suggest Wikipedia for your basic, disputably accurate information), but some of the most well known are about the being in the foreground. Is he screaming, or is he blocking out noise? Is it a he? For that matter, what is it?
Some scholars suggest the figure is influenced by a viewing of a Peruvian mummy, and that although the figure may seem to be screaming, it’s actually blocking out the noise of “nature’s scream”.

Scarier than the image? Two copies of The Scream and a piece called Madonna- all by Munch- were stolen. Two different heists, two different museums, two different groups of people. Wonderful. All three pieces were recovered, but in one of the cases, the thieves were let out of jail due to technicalities in the arrest proceedings.

If you want to know more about The Scream, I’d suggest checking out the Wikipedia page to start with. It gets into some of the interesting theories behind the setting, background effects, and foreground creature. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Scream

Nobody actually knows what he’s screaming about (again, if he’s screaming at all), but if I had a bunch of people staring at me all day, I’d probably want to scream too!

Happy Halloween!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lancastermike/3866641792/

SKINNY ELVIS, FAT LINES by Bob Kessel

Bob Kessel’s art series “HIGH & LOW” features pictures like the picture “SKINNY ELVIS, FAT LINES” shown above. These pictures are available as signed and numbered limited edition original fine art prints. Contact Bob Kessel for pricing and availability.

DOGS PLAYING POKER by Bob Kessel

“I HAVE NO MOUTH, BUT I MUST SCREAM” by Bob Kessel

DITKO PAPERCUTS by Bob Kessel

In his work titled “The Vampire” Edvard Munch depicts the simplest of scenes: a woman with rich red hair (flowing blood red?) leaning over the neck of a strangely passive male. This male might be crying, and to the casual observer, the woman attempting to comforting him. But no. That was not what Munch had in mind. Look at the shadows surrounding them both: the waiting darkness is threatening to swallow them; here there is alienation, a sense of loss, a sense that reality itself is endangered – embodied in the form of the painting, and in Munch’s use of colour.

Originally titled “Love and Pain” the painting was thought by some to represent the troubled artist’s visits to prostitutes – his empty search for love in the physicality of the flesh; others felt it was a macabre vision of his favourite sister following her death. It certainly created outrage and controversy.

August Strindberg wrote a prose-poem on Munch’s paintings:

“Golden rain falls on the unfortunate kneeling creature who craves of his evil genius the boon of death by the prick of a needle. Golden fibres which bind to earth and to suffering. A rain of blood flows in torrents over the accursed head of him who seeks the misery, the divine misery of being loved, that is – of loving.”

This is one of Munch’s paintings I fall in love with.In this "Stormy Night" apparently, Munch described fear and insecurity of society so well. (That’s what I saw). Interesting..Isn’t it?

Now look at this painting,what do you really see? Feel it!

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“El Grito” es en nombre de varios cuadros de Edvard Munch (1863 – 1944), ésta versión, si no ando equivocado, se encuentra en la Galería Nacional de Oslo y fue realizado en 1893. Existen cuatro versiones de “El Grito”, la que hoy os presento, dos versiones que permanecen en el Museo Munch y una última que pertenece a una colección particular.

Los cuadros de “El Grito” han sido objeto de diversos robos, aunque siempre finalmente han sido recuperados.

La pintura nos muestra a un extraño hombre en profunda angustia y desesperación existencial, sumergido en el paisaje de Oslo visto desde la colina de Ekeberg.

Según cuentan el cuadro pudo ser inspirado por la misma vida del artista, quien padeció, siendo niño, la muerte de su madre y de su hermana y durante la década de 1890 recibió la notícia del diagnóstico de bipolaridad y el ingreso en el psiquiatrico de su hermana Laura.

Leif Ericson Day is approaching—October 9. All of us Nordic types are getting ready for big celebrations. It takes plenty of Goggling to make a celebration. So while looking through the great Viking ship stuff at http://media.photobucket.com I ran across the notorious Edvard Munch painting, Skrik, and I finally got it—Eddie’s true intention—the origin of The Scream.

It is a self-portrait. Here’s what happened. Eddie is walking down Ekeberg Hill above the Christiania harbor. He has just visited his sister Laura who is confined to a mental hospital. She’s manic depressive. Eddie only suffers from relentless melancholia. Anyway, as Eddie walks across the bridge he passes two guys. One says to the other, “History books all say that the Italian fugleskemsel, Christopher Columbus, discovered America!”

Well, suddenly the sky around Eddie turns blood red and the fjord and city become blue-black. He stands there trembling with anxiety and he senses an infinite scream passing from his bloodless lips and moving outward through all of Norway and beyond.

No, love is not dead in this heart these eyes and this mouth
that announced the start of its own funeral.
Listen, I’ve had enough of the picturesque, the colorful
and the charming.
I love love, its tenderness and cruelty.
My love has only one name, one form.
Everything disappears. All mouths cling to that one.
My love has just one name, one form.
And if someday you remember
O you, form and name of my love,
One day on the ocean between America and Europe,
At the hour when the last ray of light sparkles
on the undulating surface of the waves, or else a stormy night
beneath a tree in the countryside or in a speeding car,
A spring morning on the boulevard Malesherbes,
A rainy day,
Just before going to bed at dawn,
Tell yourself-I order your familiar spirit-that
I alone loved you more and it’s a shame
you didn’t know it.
Tell yourself there’s no need to regret: Ronsard
and Baudelaire before me sang the sorrows
of women old or dead who scorned the purest love.
When you are dead
You will still be lovely and desirable.
I’ll be dead already, completely enclosed in your immortal body,
in your astounding image forever there among the endless marvels
of life and eternity, but if I’m alive,
The sound of your voice, your radiant looks,
Your smell the smell of your hair and many other things
will live on inside me.
In me and I’m not Ronsard or Baudelaire

I’m Robert Desnos who, because I knew
and loved you,
Is as good as they are.
I’m Robert Desnos who wants to be remembered
On this vile earth for nothing but his love of you.

A la mysterieuse

~Robert Desnos

(painting: By the Deathbed E. Munch)