What if everything in the world were a misunderstanding, what if laughter were really tears?
The melancholy river bears us on. When the moon comes through the trailing willow boughs, I see your face, I hear your voice and the bird singing as we pass the osier bed. What are you whispering? Sorrow, sorrow. Joy, joy. Woven together, like reeds in moonlight.
Virginia Woolf, “The String Quartet”
” I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently?
And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt, and perhaps
it says, “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland &
Through the Looking Glass
“‘We dance for laughter, we dance for tears, we dance for madness, we dance for fears, we dance for hopes, we dance for screams, we are the dancers, we create the dreams.”-Albert Einstein
BLUE by Rafeal Alberti , translation by Mark Strand
Blue arrived. And its time was painted.
How many blues did the Mediterranean give?
Venus, mother of the sea of blues.
The blue of the Greeks
rests, like a god, on columns.
The delicate, medieval blue.
The Virgin brought her virginal blue:
blue Mary, blue Our Lady.
It fell to his palette. And brought
the most secret blue from the sky.
Kneeling, he painted his blues.
Angels christened him with blue.
They appointed him: Beato Blue Angelico.
There are celestial palettes like wings
descended from the white of clouds.
The blues of Italy,
the blues of Spain,
the blues of France…
Raphael had wings.
Perugino also had wings
in order to spread his blues around.
When they get color from you.
indigo blue, brushes are feathers.
Venice of golden Titian blue.
Rome of Poussin blues between the pines.
Tintoretto blues embitter me.
Sulphur alcohol phosphorous Greco blue.
Toxic verdigris blue Greco.
On the palette of Velasquez I have
another name: I am called Guadarrama.
When I wander through nacreous flesh,
I am called the merry blue vein of Rubens.
And in the dawn of the lakes,
with a blue awakening, the echoes
of darkness repeat: Patinir.
There is a virginal Murillo blue,
forerunner of the brilliance of the chromes
Tiepolo also gave blues to his century.
Thinned, delicate, I am a sash–
Goya’s light blue ribbon.
I would say to you:
—You are beautiful,
beautiful as the glorious blue of ceilings.
Explosions of blue in the allegories.
In Manet blue echoes sing
of a far off Spanish blue.
I am also called Renoir. They yell for me,
but I respond at times in lilac
with my blue voice made transparent.
I am the blue shadow,
the clear silhouette of your body.
For old eyes, the scandal.
The Balearics gave their blues to Painting.
Sometimes the sea invades the palette
of the painter and assigns him
a blue sky given only in secret.
The shadow is bluest when the body
that casts it has vanished.
Ecstatic blue, having been
pure blue in motion, is nostalgic.
Even if the blue is not in the picture,
it covers it like a screen of light.
One day blue said:
–Today I have a new name. They call me:
Blue Pablo Ruiz Blue Picasso.