I 💓 magazines.
Same church where Pocahontas was wed! #weddingstrong (at Historic Jamestowne)
Richard Diebenkorn’s “Seated Figure With Hat.” My dad called me yesterday to say he saw this painting and it reminded him of me.
More a note to myself than anything else. This was delicious!
at Waipi’o Lookout
Where am I…
#tbt to yesterday. @guiducci @mimiritzencrawford
That writers “write” is meant to be self-evident. People like to say it. I find it is hardly ever true. Writers drink. Writers rant. Writers phone. Writers sleep. I have met very few writers who write at all.
I’ve also been reading John Richardson’s magnificent biography of Picasso for some research. Picasso, what a brute, what a charmer. Twice I’ve been asked why I’m so interested in the guy, and it’s true, I don’t think he is my favorite painter, but when I look at his work as a stream of images, I do feel like there are too many of his paintings that changed the way I thought of light, shape, and color when I first saw them… It saddens me to think that Richardson must be in very poor health, and that the fourth volume of the biography is forever forthcoming (I can only imagine the frustration, as the writer; Richardson was surely saving some of the best for last), especially because Francoise Gilot (above) is a fascinating woman, and she always seemed the strongest, maybe also a bit like Picasso’s first great mistress Fernande Olivier. But I always looked at Gilot and thought that she knew exactly what she was getting into… Or at least that’s how I imagine her to be.
(P.S. This has a very similar composition to a #selfie, don’t you say?)
I’m obsessed with Misia Sert. Muse, hostess, gifted pianist, painted by Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, friend of Verlaine, Rilke, Proust, best friends with Chanel, Diaghilev’s soul mate, the list goes on and on. Clive James says in his excellent essay about her biography:
Misia was in the thick of it, stirring the magic, helping make life itself a work of art — something artists are usually too busy to do.
She also shot Morphine straight through her clothes (ummm) and first heard “The Rite of Spring” in her living room, no big deal. She also never bothered to open some of Proust’s letters (WHAT). James also writes:
Misia survives only in the work of others. … But the personality itself has been long gone. In a way that no artist can ever quite understand but nearly all of them find irresistibly attractive, she did nothing with her capacity for beauty except live. Yet the human personality, which dies with the memory of individuals, and the work of art, which lives on in the collective consciousness, are different forms of the same thing — a truth made acutely visible by Misia’s portraits, which, if they do not capture her, certainly capture uncapturability. She gave the artists the gift of her sublime ephemerality and they made it last. That true sacred monster the Comtesse Anna de Noailles wrote herself an epitaph which would have done much better for Misia: ‘I shall have been useless but irreplaceable.’