I've decided to post more Odilon Redon, (possibly my favorite artist) but paintings from a different period of his work than what I usually post. Most of his works I share are from the comparatively short period towards the end of the career in which he painted very dreamy, full color paintings. These are some of his Noirs, charcoal paintings from an earlier period.
Something to Believe in
By CARL PHILLIPS
My two hunting dogs have names, but I rarely use them. As
I go, they go: I lead; they follow, the blue-eyed one first, then
the one whose coloring—her coat, not her eyes—I sometimes
call never-again-o-never-this-way-henceforth. Hope, ambition:
these are not their names, though the way they run might suggest
otherwise. Like steam off night-soaked wooden fencing when
the sun first hits it, they rise each morning at my command. Late
in the Iliad, Priam the king of Troy predicts his own murder—
correctly, except it won’t be by spear, as he imagines, but by
sword thrust. He can see his corpse, sees the dogs he’s fed and
trained so patiently pulling the corpse apart. After that, he says,
When they’re full, they’ll lie in the doorway, they’ll lap my blood.
I say: Why shouldn’t they? Everywhere, the same people who
mistake obedience for loyalty think somehow loyalty weighs more
than hunger, when it doesn’t. At night, when it’s time for bed,
we sleep together, the three of us: muscled animal, muscled animal,
muscled animal. The dogs settle to either side of me as if each
were the slightly folded wing of a beast from fable, part power, part
recognition. We breathe in a loose kind of unison. Our breathing
ripples the way oblivion does—routinely, across history’s face.
By CARL PHILLIPS
My two hunting dogs have names, but I rarely use them. As
I go, they go: I lead; they follow, the blue-eyed one first, then
the one whose coloring—her coat, not her eyes—I sometimes
call never-again-o-never-this-way-henceforth. Hope, ambition:
these are not their names, though the way they run might suggest
otherwise. Like steam off night-soaked wooden fencing when
the sun first hits it, they rise each morning at my command. Late
in the Iliad, Priam the king of Troy predicts his own murder—
correctly, except it won’t be by spear, as he imagines, but by
sword thrust. He can see his corpse, sees the dogs he’s fed and
trained so patiently pulling the corpse apart. After that, he says,
When they’re full, they’ll lie in the doorway, they’ll lap my blood.
I say: Why shouldn’t they? Everywhere, the same people who
mistake obedience for loyalty think somehow loyalty weighs more
than hunger, when it doesn’t. At night, when it’s time for bed,
we sleep together, the three of us: muscled animal, muscled animal,
muscled animal. The dogs settle to either side of me as if each
were the slightly folded wing of a beast from fable, part power, part
recognition. We breathe in a loose kind of unison. Our breathing
ripples the way oblivion does—routinely, across history’s face.
Found
It’s that time of year again, isn’t it? The snow is falling, the air is rolling softly between the dried branches. Or maybe it isn’t. If you close your blinds, the difference will melt away like the ice that may or may not be outside. Go on, do it. Are…
Earlier this year, I was asked to write a manifesto, and set my beliefs about poetry to paper. Would you be surprised to hear that I don’t believe in much? I should explain. I am in a perpetual state of war with universals. Grand, sweeping statements are odious to me, how could I possibly apply one to my own work? It was with this sentiment in mind that I began to explore the idea of poetic truth, and the greater purpose of poetry as a whole.
It quickly became apparent to me that the truth and beauty of poetry does not, as many would think, come from stating the universal. The true, emotional heart of poetry, rather, comes from the poet’s ability to tap into the ever changing, unique nature of their own history. Never craft a message everyone knows, the ink will begin to fade before it passes through ten sets of hands. A more lasting beauty, instead, is formed by the secrets we keep; it allows the reader to project their understandings on to the author’s truths. You will find, in each word written by another’s hand, a message, but not always a definite one. You will find photos, but you will not always know their stories. Regardless, these things are yours. The things made for someone’s own expression have become your tools for comfort. They’re amazing gifts, aren’t they? Keep them, preserve them, correct them, whatever. They’re yours as soon as you see them. Just take care of what you find.
It quickly became apparent to me that the truth and beauty of poetry does not, as many would think, come from stating the universal. The true, emotional heart of poetry, rather, comes from the poet’s ability to tap into the ever changing, unique nature of their own history. Never craft a message everyone knows, the ink will begin to fade before it passes through ten sets of hands. A more lasting beauty, instead, is formed by the secrets we keep; it allows the reader to project their understandings on to the author’s truths. You will find, in each word written by another’s hand, a message, but not always a definite one. You will find photos, but you will not always know their stories. Regardless, these things are yours. The things made for someone’s own expression have become your tools for comfort. They’re amazing gifts, aren’t they? Keep them, preserve them, correct them, whatever. They’re yours as soon as you see them. Just take care of what you find.