Pre-raphaelites

I like to think I have some (minimal at best) knowledge of the art world. Now, by no means am I an expert - but I certainly know what I enjoy looking at. For me, to be captivating or worthwhile a piece has to tell a story; mostly I can't be bothered with the semantics of the art world - the proper techinques and style of a period manages to elude me for the most part - I am waiting on art history in the winter semester to right that wrong. But to see a piece that conveys a story, portraying the political, social or economic climate of the time, while still holding true to some principles of proper artistry is rare and incredibly appealing.

The pre-raphaelite period is one of my favorites, because the prominent artists of the time managed to somehow rediscover the beauty of ancient myth and culture. It is simply hard to ignore the romanticism, with every painting I am further inclined to run off into forest and live like a nymph; I want to wear flowers in my hair and sleep in the grass. There is an emotional context - in my case at least - which adds a depth to the works which I hadn't thought relevant when I was first exposed to them years ago. They bring my stressed, over exposed mind down to a level which cannot fathom a life which does not include cottages in the woods with picturesque gardens to sleep in - and of course, a secluded pond for the occasional afternoon swim.

From here, here, here, here and here

Required Red

Arrows of Eros - Golden Silvers by Nadia Yalc

Cemetery Gates - The Smiths

We went for a walk around a cemetery, nestled at the based of some rather cozy looking mountains - you know, as cozy as a mountain can be. I like to look at the tombstones, and though it sound terribly morbid, I do completely understand ones fascination with the dead. See, growing up, my life had always been about the past. Even now, I hardly ever pick up books written in this century, let alone subscribe to it's mass produced ideologies and conventions; so, when the opportunity arises I tend to enjoy a look back.

Most of the people buried in the cemetery had been there since the 19th century, and reading the tombstones was rather stimulating. What struck me most thoroughly was - I don't presume to know the proper term - the 'grave etiquette,' and how the names on the plaques and monuments became increasingly specific through the last two centuries. On the older graves, they would have family names, or the daughter of Samuel, Brother of Mark, wife of Daniel - it struck me as odd, the lack of autonomy. There were also family plots, family monuments, family catacombs; I wasn't entirely prepared to contemplate the complexity of 'grave naming' on the trip, I had always assumed your name and something nice was put on your tombstone, not a complete family history.

I suppose it makes sense, given the history; but, for me, to be known in death only as the daughter of this man, wife of that guy and sister of whoever seems defeating. Maybe I'm being a tad modern about this (I am, I will, quite over zealously, state the fact that this is my view of the world through new-aged rose coloured glasses), but to be known only by what I was born to and not what I had accomplished seems terribly depressing - not to say that the cemetery wasn't hauntingly beautiful in it's own right.

My fringe has outgrown me - but I have not outgrown dinosaur shaped nutella sandwiches