cf. LIFE, 1937
cf. photographs via Unsplash and video (rain) by Vimeo-Free-Videos via Pixabay
Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?
Thomas Hardy, The Voice (excerpt)
cf. Antoine-Émile Bourdelle, “Irene Millet” (1917) and Edouard Manet, A Bar at the Folies-Bergère (1882)
Yet diaries do, indirectly, lay claim to a certain kind of immortality, projecting a voice beyond the grave. Alice James’s diary was her dialogue with the future. It gave form to her sense of ironic detachment. And it created a communion in her lonely life…
—Jean Strouse, Alice James: A Biography
cf. Pompeo Batoni, “Portrait of a Young Man” (ca. 1760–65) and
image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images via Pixabay and
video by Felix_Broennimann (“Star, Long Exposure”) via Pixabay and
video by InspiredImages (“Lava Lamp”) via Pixabay
cf. video by Sixstringplayer via Pixabay
cf. The National Archives UK, “Helmets Are In, Road Safety poster” (1960s) and
GalaxyMikeDE – Night Sky Timelapse with ASI120 – YouTube
cf. Alfred Stieglitz, “An Icy Night” (1898) and video by CAMERAGE via Pixabay
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer’s day
Robs not one light seed from the feather’d grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade: the Naiad ‘mid her reeds
Press’d her cold finger closer to her lips…
—Keats, Hyperion (excerpt)
cf. American Mutoscope and Biograph Co., “Foxy Grandpa and Polly in a little hilarity” (1902)
cf. Harry Wayne McMahan, “The Television Commercial” (1954)
cf. LIFE, 1964
Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself…
–Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
cf. LIFE, 1968
‘Tis far off
And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me?
Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
—Shakespeare, The Tempest
cf. Joseph Wright of Derby, “Philosopher Giving a Lecture on the Orrery” (ca. 1768)
cf. video by Coverr-Free-Footage via Pixabay
And now, my Marian, from its shackles free,
My wearied fancy turns for ease to thee;
To thee, my compass through life’s varied stream,
My constant object, and unfailing theme…
—Warren Hastings, “Ode to his Wife” (Written in Patna, 1784)
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed…
—Gerard Manley Hopkins, “No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief.” (excerpt)
“You weren’t so nice to me last night.”
“How could it have mattered then?”
Silence for a moment. Then:
“However — I want to see you.”
“I want to see you, too.”
“Suppose I don’t go to Southampton, and come into town this afternoon?”
“No — I don’t think this afternoon.”
“It’s impossible this afternoon. Various ——”
We talked like that for a while, and then abruptly we weren’t talking any longer. I don’t know which of us hung up with a sharp click, but I know I didn’t care. I couldn’t have talked to her across a tea-table that day if I never talked to her again in this world.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
cf. Gjon Mili, “The Lindy Hop” (LIFE, 1943)
Library Company of Philadelphia, “Sugar with your tea Patrick?”
cf. Gjon Mili, “The Lindy Hop” (LIFE, 1943)
(Comes towards her and leans over the back of a chair.)
Are you fretting yourself, ma’am, about anything?
Don’t be. He was always like that, meandering off by himself somewhere. He is a curious bird, Master Richard, and always was. Sure there isn’t a turn in him I don’t know. Are you fretting now maybe because he does be in there (pointing to the study) half the night at his books? Leave him alone. He’ll come back to you again. Sure he thinks the sun shines out of your face, ma’am.
—James Joyce, Exiles
You got that radioaction
Brighter than a sunny day…
cf. Childe Hassam in Joseph Pennell, “Modern Illustration” (1895)
King Kong (1976)
Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, “Playing baseball…” (ca. 1910)
cf. Harry W. Watrous, The Passing of Summer (1912)
Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off…
–Robert Frost, Directive
Girl Shy (1924)
James Jebusa Shannon, “Woman Reading a Book on a Beach” (detail) (ca. 1891–96) and
Breakfast at Tiffany’s (1961)
cf. LIFE (1943)
cf. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, “Landscape with dirt road and stone wall” (ca. 1900)
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass…
—Whitman, Song Of Myself
Lady Bracknell: A hand-bag?
—Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest
cf. LIFE, 1969
“Son coeur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu’on le touche il résonne.”
–epigraph from Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher
cf. Edward Fletcher Stevens, “The American hospital of the twentieth century…” (1918) and
treetreeplant, Vancouver rainstorm August 29 2013 – YouTube
I sat on the edge of the bed
in the dark
spotlight sheet of rain traveling down the street
I remembered another night
when I looked at the rain
a long time ago
cf. D.A. Sigerist, “Two men and a woman dancing three hand reel” (ca. 1905)
LAVINIA: Stop! I want you to explain the telegram.
JULIA: Explain the telegram? What do you think, Alex?
ALEX: No, Julia, we can’t explain the telegram.
LAVINIA: I am sure that you could explain the telegram.
I don’t know why. But it seems to me that yesterday
I started some machine, that goes on working,
And I cannot stop it; no, it’s not like a machine—
Or if it’s a machine, someone else is running it.
But who? Somebody is always interfering …
I don’t feel free … and yet I started it …
–T. S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party
We walked to the train stop
on a sunny fall day
I turned around
and saw you
cf. Sergey Sudeykin: “Gentleman’s formal attire” and “Woman wearing a blue-green suit”
(additional drawing and animation by John Sapiro)
cf. Remo Farruggio, Basin Street (1938) and LIFE, 1968
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
–T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (excerpt)
cf. Gustav Kalhammer, “View from Café Heinrichhof…” (1911)
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
—Romeo and Juliet
“I too am sometimes sad and lonely, especially when I walk around a church or parsonage.
Let’s not give in, but try to be patient and gentle. And do not mind being eccentric…”
–Letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, March 16, 1877
cf. Lewis Hine, “Icarus, Empire State Building” (1930)
cf. Home Movie
One that is ever kind said yesterday:
“Your well beloved’s hair has threads of grey,
And little shadows come about her eyes;
Time can but make it easier to be wise,
Though now it’s hard, till trouble is at an end;
And so be patient, be wise and patient, friend.”
But heart, there is no comfort, not a grain;
Time can but make her beauty over again,
Because of that great nobleness of hers;
The fire that stirs about her, when she stirs
Burns but more clearly. O she had not these ways,
When all the wild Summer was in her gaze.
O heart! O heart! if she’d but turn her head,
You’d know the folly of being comforted.
–Yeats, The Folly of Being Comforted
cf. Home Movie PA 000111 and photograph by Kevin Lee via Unsplash
Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending…
–T.S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages
cf. Henry Farrer, Winter Scene in Moonlight (1869) and stock footage – STARS – Time Lapse – Night
Although crowds gathered once if she but showed her face,
And even old men’s eyes grew dim, this hand alone,
Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping place,
Babbling of fallen majesty, records what’s gone.
The lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet,
These, these remain, but I record what’s gone. A crowd
Will gather, and not know it walks the very street
Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud.
–W.B. Yeats, Fallen Majesty
99, I’ve been waiting so long…
Your mother named you. You and she just saw
Each other in passing in the room upstairs,
One coming this way into life, and one
Going the other out of life—you know?
So you can’t have much recollection of her.
She had been having a long look at you.
She put her finger in your cheek so hard
It must have made your dimple there, and said,
‘Maple.’ I said it too: ‘Yes, for her name.’
She nodded. So we’re sure there’s no mistake.
I don’t know what she wanted it to mean,
But it seems like some word she left to bid you
Be a good girl—be like a maple tree.
How like a maple tree’s for us to guess…
–Robert Frost, Maple (excerpt)
Eastman Kodak Company, “How to make good movies…” (1938)
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
–T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (excerpt)
Well, I’m a bum in the sun and I’m having fun
And I know you know I got no special plans
All the bills are paid
I got it made in the shade
And all I need is the woman…
cf. Edward Hopper, Nighthawks (detail) (1942) and Detour (1945)
Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,
Because our love is waning.
–William Butler Yeats, Ephemera (excerpt)
You’re leaving now
It’s in your eyes…
cf. Cincinnati Magazine, 1990
cf. Ladies’ Home Journal, 1964
cf. Samuel H. Gottscho, New York World’s Fair, Entrance to Perisphere (1939)
cf. Corson Hirschfeld, “Sporting Life” (Cincinnati Magazine, 1977)
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye…
–W.B. Yeats, A Drinking Song
But I never seen nothing like you…
cf. Winslow Homer, “A Parisian Ball-Dancing At The Mabille, Paris”
cf. LIFE, 1957 and Skyline New York : Dudley Pictures Corporation
Each weekend I traveled the fifty-odd miles from Glacial Falls to Watertown, where I spent Friday night and all day Saturday in some sustained whisky drinking, tapering off Sundays with a few bottles of beer at The Parrot, eyes fixed on the television screen, cheering for my team. “Cheering” is a paltry description. The Giants were my delight, my folly, my anodyne…
—Frederick Exley, A Fan’s Notes
Charles Frederic Ulrich, Moment Musicale (1883)
and slworking2, Short time lapse of the harvest moon rising over a mountain – YouTube
cf. Bill Roughen, “Night Life” (Cincinnati Magazine, 1977)
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light…
—Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese 43: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways”
I never knew how complete love could be
Till she kissed me and said…
cf. Delphin Enjolras, The Fireplace and The Best Fireplace Video
cf. Thomas Eakins, The Thinker: Portrait of Louis N. Kenton (1900) and The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964)
Your memory seems like a living thing
I never know if I’m imagining
I look at your face and I know that it’s impossible
Forgetting it’s just a dream
Now I’m hearing your voice saying anything is possible
Forgetting it’s just a dream…
Claude Monet, Bridge over a Pond of Water Lilies (1899) and That Junior Miss Spirit : GM Photographic
cf. The Fire Within (Le feu follet) (1963) and Home Movie: 98927: St. Croix River and 1956 Honeymoon
“Now, you recall this memory, as if
it were someone else’s story…”
—from Margo Button, “With No Explanation”
Been breaking down
Do you want me now?
Robert Burns, The Window Seat (ca. 1905) and startgrid, “Clouds Time Lapse – YouTube”
Heart, we will forget him!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may dim;
Haste! lest while you’re lagging,
I may remember him!
Back in my room I wonder
Then I sit on the bed
Look at the sky
Up in the sky
cf. Calvert Richard Jones, “Colosseum, Rome, Second View” (1846)
“Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
She’s everything you dream about
But don’t fall in love…
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
—Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”
I will choose a path that’s clear…
State Library of New South Wales, “A large erratic resting on gneiss Cape Denison area” (ca. 1911)
8 1/2 (1963)
Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood’s woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.
And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love’s bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.
—W. B. Yeats, Who goes with Fergus?
His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof:
Don’t mope over it all day, he said. I’m inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding.
His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead:
And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love’s bitter mystery
For Fergus rules the brazen cars.
—James Joyce, Ulysses
Drawing And Animation By John Sapiro
“For me the past is forever.”
–F. Scott Fitzgerald
cf. Unidentified photographer (Frances Benjamin Johnston Collection), “Woman sitting on window seat…” (between 1900 and 1920)
cf. Photograph by Christian Koch via Unsplash
cf. Photos by Brandon Morgan (sky), Etienne Desclides (car) and Roksolana Zasiadko (woman) via Unsplash
I remember what my father said–
He said “Son, life is simple,
It’s either cherry red or
cf. photograph by Everton Vila via Unsplash and ridgerider04, Time Lapse Lightning Storm 2012
Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract tonight:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say “It lightens.”
—Romeo and Juliet
All That Heaven Allows (1955)
cf. Victor Gabriel Gilbert, Scène de Bal and Joseph Karl Stieler, Portrait of Ludwig van Beethoven (1820)
Gertrude Kasebier, “Study Of A Boy” (1901)
and Martin-Eero Kõressaar, Eero – Reports (Night sky time-lapse compilation) – YouTube
White in the moon the long road lies,
The moon stands blank above;
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.
Still hangs the hedge without a gust,
Still, still the shadows stay:
My feet upon the moonlit dust
Pursue the ceaseless way.
The world is round, so travellers tell,
And straight though reach the track,
Trudge on, trudge on, ’twill all be well,
The way will guide one back.
But ere the circle homeward hies
Far, far must it remove:
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.
–A. E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad: White in the moon the long road lies
See her how she flies
Golden sails across the sky
Close enough to touch
But careful if you try
Though she looks as warm as gold
The moon’s a harsh mistress
The moon can be so cold…
“Lay long with pleasure talking with my wife, in whom I never had greater content, blessed be God! than now…”
—The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Sunday, November 2, 1662
cf. Georges Seurat: A Sunday on La Grande Jatte — 1884 (detail) (1884/86),
Study for “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte” (1884)
and Gustave Caillebotte: Paris Street; Rainy Day, 1877 (detail) (1877)
cf. photographs by Jay Mantri and Paul Itkin via Unsplash
He dove in and swam the pool, but when he tried to haul himself up onto the curb he found that the strength in his arms and shoulders had gone, and he paddled to the ladder and climbed out. Looking over his shoulder he saw, in the lighted bathhouse, a young man. Going out onto the dark lawn he smelled chrysanthemums or marigolds—some stubborn autumnal fragrance—on the night air, strong as gas. Looking overhead he saw that the stars had come out, but why should he seem to see Andromeda, Cepheus, and Cassiopeia? What had become of the constellations of midsummer? He began to cry.
— John Cheever, The Swimmer
The world that we used to know
People tell me it don’t turn no more
The places we used to go
Familiar faces that ain’t smiling like before
The time of our time has come and gone
I fear we’ve been waiting too long…
cf. Photographs by Clem Onojeghuo (ocean) and Lukas Budimaier (man) via Unsplash
“Consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a strange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half-known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle, thou canst never return!”
—Herman Melville, Moby Dick
cf. from William Mortensen, “Portrait Procedure” (ca. 1941)
Take, O, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again, bring again;
Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.
–Shakespeare, Measure for Measure
cf. H. L. Bostwick, “Multi-Photograph Of Cissy Fitzgerald” (ca. 1905)
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.
–Emily Brontë, The night is darkening round me
cf. from “The Book Of Photography, Practical, Theoretic And Applied”, Paul N. Hasluck, Ed. (1907)
Photograph by John Sting via Unsplash
Cincinnati Magazine (1987)
cf. from William Findlay, “Early Morning Photography” (ca. 1909)
I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so
many generations hence,
Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt,
Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd,
Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the
bright flow, I was refresh’d,
Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift
current, I stood yet was hurried,
Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships and the thick-
stemm’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d…
—Walt Whitman, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
—T.S. Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night (excerpt)
If this is what’s real
If this is what’s true
Tell me how come
I keep forgetting we’re not in love anymore…
cf. from W. H. Broadwell, “Night Photography” (ca. 1909)
cf. Maximilien Luce: Man Washing (1887), Morning, Interior (ca. 1890) and Coffee (1892)
cf. Edward Hopper, Nighthawks (1942)
cf. Photograph by Adrian Williams via Unsplash
cf. image from “St. Nicholas book of plays & operettas” (1900)
cf. Eadweard Muybridge, Animal locomotion (ca. 1887)
cf. Vincent van Gogh, The Starry Night (1889)
cf. Burk Uzzle, Broad Street, Philadelphia (1981)
cf. Sebastian Ortiz Vasquez, Walking Wall St. NY – YouTube
Shining cratefuls of plum, peach, apricot
Are flung out of the fruit man’s tiny store.
Behind the supermarket glass next door:
Landslides of grapefruit, orange, tangerine,
Persimmon, boysenberry, nectarine.
The florist tilts his giant crayon box
Of yellow roses, daffodils, and phlox.
A Disney sun breaks through, makes toys of trucks
And waddling movers look like Donald Ducks
And joke book captions out of storefront signs:
Café du Soir, Austrian Village, Wines.
Pedestrians in olive drabs and grays
Are startled by the sun’s kinetic rays,
Then mottled into pointillistic patches.
The light turns green, cars passing hurl out snatches
Of rock-and-roll and Mozart and the weather.
The light turns red. Why aren’t we together?
–Frederick Feirstein, “Mark Stern Wakes Up” from New and Selected Poems (Story Line Press)
On every crowded street
All the places we would meet
What will I do without you?
They say that life goes on
I’m feeling sorry for myself
I can’t belive you’re gone…
Photograph by Daniela Cuevas via Unsplash
and Arnstein Bjone, The Atlantic Ocean Road / Atlanterhavsveien, dashcam video, Norway – YouTube
cf. Cincinnati Magazine (1976)
Thomas A. Edison, Inc., Charity ball (1897)
Somehow, the summer seemed to slip by faster this time. Maybe it wasn’t this summer, but all the summers that, in this my fortieth summer, slipped by so fast. There comes a time when every summer will have something of autumn about it. Whatever the reason, it seemed to me that I was investing more and more in baseball, making the game do more of the work that keeps time fat and slow and lazy.
–A. Bartlett Giamatti, “The Green Fields of the Mind” (excerpt)
cf. Henri Lebasque, In Front of the Window, Ile d’Yeu (1919) and Tuck Happiness, Summer in Helsinki 2012 Timelapse – YouTube
“Planning to pay him out she tiptoed very early the next morning into Lytton’s bedroom, taking a pair of scissors with which she intended to snip away his beard while he slept. It was to be one of those devastating practical jokes of which she was so fond – a perfect revenge for his audacity. But the plan misfired. As she leant over him, Lytton opened his eyes and looked at her. It was a moment of curious intimacy, and she, who hypnotized so many others, was suddenly hypnotized herself.”
—Michael Holroyd, Lytton Strachey: The New Biography
She’s a wizard with her sheers
She’s been turning heads for years…
cf. Photograph by NASA via Unsplash
cf. National Photo Company Collection, Man and woman in automobile (ca. 1920) and photograph by Wil Stewart via Unsplash
“Once in the middle twenties I was driving along the High Corniche Road through the twilight with the whole French Riviera twinkling on the sea below. As far ahead as I could see was Monte Carlo…It was not Monte Carlo I was looking at. It was back into the mind of the young man with cardboard soles who had walked the streets of New York. I was him again—for an instant I had the good fortune to share his dreams, I who had no more dreams of my own. And there are still times when I creep up on him, surprise him on an autumn morning in New York or a spring night in Carolina when it is so quiet that you can hear a dog barking in the next county. But never again as during that all too short period when he and I were one person, when the fulfilled future and the wistful past were mingled in a single gorgeous moment—when life was literally a dream.”
—F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Early Success”
Standing on top of the world for a little while…
cf. B.W. Kilburn Company, Broadway and the great “Flatiron” (ca. 1903) and photograph by Wil Stewart via Unsplash
cf. Sir William Quiller Orchardson, On the North Foreland (1890) and Windy day on the beach – YouTube
cf. photograph by Janina Meyer via Unsplash and ocean waves storm wind rough sea – YouTube
I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will,
O despairer, here is my neck,
By God, you shall not go down! hang your whole weight upon me.
—Walt Whitman, Song Of Myself
cf. John Singer Sargent, Landscape with Women in Foreground (detail) (Oil on canvas) (ca. 1883)
and Summer field Time Lapse – YouTube
cf. Thomas Wilmer Dewing, Comedia (Oil on panel) (ca. 1892-1894)
cf. Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Carriage (ca. 1881)
cf. Gene Daniels, Children Play in Yard… (1972) and photograph by Frantzou Fleurine via Unsplash
…And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
–Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, My Lost Youth
cf. Eugène Atget, Joueur de Guitare (1900)
cf. John Singer Sargent, In the Luxembourg Gardens (1879)
cf. John Singer Sargent, A Waterfall (ca. 1910) and Ogwen waterfall, North Wales – YouTube
Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue…
cf. Henri-Julien-Félix Rousseau, Carnival Evening (1886)
Peter Severin Krøyer, Interior of a Tavern (1886) and Léon-Augustin Lhermitte, Woman with a Jug (1882)
It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
The dark threw its patches down upon me also,
The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious,
My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre?…
—Walt Whitman, Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
cf. Winslow Homer, The Life Line (1884)
cf. LIFE (1964)
cf. Myra Albert Wiggins, Looking seaward (1889) and THE BULL PEN, mt baldy lightning
cf. LIFE (1966)
cf. LIFE (1956)
cf. LIFE (1966)
cf. John Maler Collier, The Confession (1902) and A Cozy Fire in the Fireplace – YouTube
cf. Charles O’Rear, Two young people overlook the Colorado River (1972) and Sunset Time Lapse – YouTube
Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, The Great Hall of the Library of Congress (ca. 1911)
Marion Post Wolcott, Sugaring is a social event and is enjoyed by all the young people… (1940)
Julian Alden Weir, In the living room (ca. 1890) and The sunset behind a Tree in a Field. Time Lapse. – YouTube
cf. Johannes Vermeer, Young Woman with a Water Pitcher (ca. 1662)
cf. Edgar Degas, A Woman Ironing (1873) and Rain on Window – YouTube
Source: Home Movie: 97185
cf. Johannes Vermeer, Girl with a Pearl Earring (ca. 1665)
Leonard McCombe, “I See My Love” (LIFE, 1951)
cf. Photograph by why kei via Unsplash and Like Crazy – Official Trailer [HD] – YouTube
cf. photograph by Léa Dubedout via Unsplash and Gazing at the Sun (Time Lapse) – YouTube
cf. Vermeer, The Art of Painting
The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,
The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others…
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them…
It avails not, time nor place—distance avails not,
I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence…
What is it then between us?
What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us?
Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not…
—“Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” from “Leaves of Grass” (1891-92)
cf. Mary Shepard Greene Blumenschein, Un Regard Fugitif (detail) (edited and animated) (1900)
cf. Paul-César Helleu, Woman Reclining (edited and animated)
cf. Adolph B. Rice Studio, Thalhimers, boy’s bicycle (1957) and John Thomas, The last of the old candlemakers (ca. 1885) and Thomas Milburn, Train window (2015) and photograph by Juskteez Vu via Unsplash
Forty-two years ago (to me if to no one else
The number is of some interest) it was a brilliant starry night
And the westward train was empty and had no corridors
So darting from side to side I could catch the unwonted sight
Of those almost intolerably bright
Holes, punched in the sky, which excited me partly because
Of their Latin names and partly because I had read in the textbooks
How very far off they were, it seemed their light
Had left them (some at least) long years before I was.
And this remembering now I mark that what
Light was leaving some of them at least then,
Forty-two years ago, will never arrive
In time for me to catch it, which light when
It does get here may find that there is not
Anyone left alive
To run from side to side in a late night train
Admiring it and adding noughts in vain.
—Louis MacNeice, Star-Gazer