SeaSaw

 

Paul Nash, Winter Sea, 1925-1937

In York, England.  Saw this one yesterday at the York City Gallery, a surprising, small-ish museum with a few extremely good pieces.  In person, the one above is so beautiful it belongs in a room by itself.  

These two others were on the lower floor, housing an even more surprising combination of early Dutch religious paintings, taxidermy, and natures mortes.  The peacock ought to come with a caption saying "don't look at my feet", and if I were the curator, I'd call this juxtaposition HourGlasSkull "Time & Wind".

But what topped it all for me was seeing a painting by Jack Butler Yeats, brother of W.B., and not only was the painting quite good (I especially loved the colours) but the title is so unusual! That We May Never Meet Again depicts two friends who for whatever reason will never meet again!  I didn't know W. had a painter brother!  I won't post it, I didn't take a photo of it; just stood there and wondered about the title, and tried to ascertain how many different shades of blue were used, and if this was optimistic or not, and good thing there is a fan in this room cause it is so hot, and why haven't I heard of Jack Butler Yeats before... and I walked away thinking that no matter what the narrative may be, the painting is pretty good.

The Municipal Gallery Revisited

William Butler Yeats

I

Around me the images of thirty years:

An ambush; pilgrims at the water-side;

Casement upon trial, half hidden by the bars,

Guarded; Griffith staring in hysterical pride;

Kevin O'Higgins' countenance that wears

A gentle questioning look that cannot hide

A soul incapable of remorse or rest;

A revolutionary soldier kneeling to be blessed;

II

An Abbot or Archbishop with an upraised hand

Blessing the Tricolour. 'This is not,' I say,

'The dead Ireland of my youth, but an Ireland

The poets have imagined, terrible and gay.'

Before a woman's portrait suddenly I stand,

Beautiful and gentle in her Venetian way.

I met her all but fifty years ago

For twenty minutes in some studio.

III

Heart-smitten with emotion I Sink down,

My heart recovering with covered eyes;

Wherever I had looked I had looked upon

My permanent or impermanent images:

Augusta Gregory's son; her sister's son,

Hugh Lane, 'onlie begetter' of all these;

Hazel Lavery living and dying, that tale

As though some ballad-singer had sung it all;

IV

Mancini's portrait of Augusta Gregory,

'Greatest since Rembrandt,' according to John Synge;

A great ebullient portrait certainly;

But where is the brush that could show anything

Of all that pride and that humility?

And I am in despair that time may bring

Approved patterns of women or of men

But not that selfsame excellence again.

V

My mediaeval knees lack health until they bend,

But in that woman, in that household where

Honour had lived so long, all lacking found.

Childless I thought, 'My children may find here

Deep-rooted things,' but never foresaw its end,

And now that end has come I have not wept;

No fox can foul the lair the badger swept --

VI

(An image out of Spenser and the common tongue).

John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought

All that we did, all that we said or sang

Must come from contact with the soil, from that

Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.

We three alone in modern times had brought

Everything down to that sole test again,

Dream of the noble and the beggar-man.

VII

And here's John Synge himself, that rooted man,

'Forgetting human words,' a grave deep face.

You that would judge me, do not judge alone

This book or that, come to this hallowed place

Where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon;

Ireland's history in their lineaments trace;

Think where man's glory most begins and ends,

And say my glory was I had such friends.

The Dying Animal Sailing to Byzantium

Last week I read Philip Roth's The Dying Animal - a very good but depressing, cynical book about love.

Roth can write, so he made me want to go and re-read Yeats's Sailing to Byzantium, a poem that ended up inspiring more than one title!: (bad punctuation alert...)

THAT is no country for old men. The young

In one another's arms, birds in the trees

- Those dying generations - at their song,

The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,

Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long

Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.

Caught in that sensual music all neglect

Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,

A tattered coat upon a stick, unless

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing

For every tatter in its mortal dress,

Nor is there singing school but studying

Monuments of its own magnificence;

And therefore I have sailed the seas and come

To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire

As in the gold mosaic of a wall,

Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,

And be the singing-masters of my soul.

Consume my heart away; sick with desire

And fastened to a dying animal

It knows not what it is; and gather me

Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.