Flex Mentallo

I for one cant wait! The stage is yours!

That's an impressive collection you have there! I'm particularly struck by this one - is there a story behind thr image? Do you know more about the artist? It puts me in mind of a certain "school" of contemporary realist painting that isnt quite as it appears.

On the day that I die a glimpse of you may I behold and from life's desire leap into eternity And I will rise! Hafiz

Black Marigolds

[font:Book Antiqua] Even now My thought is all of this gold-tinted king's daughter With garlands tissue and golden buds, Smoke tangles of her hair, and sleeping or waking Feet trembling in love, full of pale languor; My thought is clinging as to a lost learning Slipped down out of the minds of men, Labouring to bring her back into my soul. Even now If I see in my soul the citron-breasted fair one Still gold-tinted, her face like our night stars, Drawing unto her; her body beaten about with flame, Wounded by the flaring spear of love, My first of all by reason of her fresh years, Then is my heart buried alive in snow. Even now If my girl with lotus eyes came to me again Weary with the dear weight of young love, Again I would give her to these starved twins of arms And from her mouth drink down the heavy wine, As a reeling pirate bee in fluttered ease Steals up the honey from the nenuphar. Even now I bring her back, ah, wearied out with love So that her slim feet could not bear her up; Curved falls of her hair down on her white cheeks; In the confusion of her coloured vests Speaking that guarded giving up, and her scented arms Lay like cool bindweed over against my neck. Even now I bring her back to me in her quick shame, Hiding her bright face at the point of day: Making her grave eyes move in watered stars, For love's great sleeplessness wandering all night, Seeming to sail gently, as that pink bird, Down the water of love in a harvest of lotus. Even now If I saw her lying all wide eyes And with collyrium the indent of her cheek Lengthened to the bright ear and her pale side So suffering the fever of my distance, Then would my love for her be ropes of flowers, and night A black-haired lover on the breasts of day. Even now I see the heavy startled hair of this reed-flute player Who curved her poppy lips to love dances, Having a youth's face madding like the moon Lying at her full; limbs ever moving a little in love, Too slight, too delicate, tired with the small burden Of bearing love ever on white feet. Even now She is present to me on her beds, Balmed with the exhalation of a flattering musk, Rich with the curdy essence of santal; Girl with eyes dazing as the seeded wine, Showing as a pair of gentle nuthatches Kissing each other with their bills, each hidden By turns within a little grasping mouth. Even now She swims back in the crowning hour of love All red with wine her lips have given to drink, Soft round the mouth with camphor and faint blue Tinted upon the lips, her slight body, Her great live eyes, the colourings of herself A clear perfection; sighs of musk outstealing And powdered wood spice heavy of Kashmir. Even now I see her; far face blond like gold Rich with small lights, and tinted shadows surprised Over and over all of her; with glittering eyes All bright for love but very love weary, As it were the conjuring disk of the moon when Rahu ceases With his dark stumbling block to hide her rays. Even now She is art-magically present to my soul, And that one word of strange heart's cease, goodbye, That in the night, in loth moving to go, And bending over to a golden mouth, I said softly to the turned away Tenderly tired hair of this king's daughter. Even now My eyes that hurry to see no more are painting, painting Faces of my lost girl. O golden rings That tap against cheeks of small magnolia-leaves, O whitest so soft parchment where My poor divorced lips have written excellent Stanzas of kisses, and will write no more. Even now Death sends me the flickering of powdery lids Over wild eyes and the pity of her slim body All broken up with the weariness of joy; The little red flowers of her breasts to be my comfort Moving above scarves, and for my sorrow Wet crimson lips that once I marked as mine. Even now By a cool noise of waters in the spring The Asoka with young flowers that feign her fingers And bud in red; and in the green vest pearls kissing As it were rose leaves in the gardens of God; the shining at night Of white cheeks in the dark; smiles from light thoughts within, And her walking as of a swan: these trouble me. Even now The pleased intimacy of rough love Upon the patient glory of her form Racks me with memory; and her bright dress As it were yellow flame, which the white hand Shamefastly gathers in her rising haste, The slender grace of her departing feet. Even now When all my heavy heart is broken up I seem to see my prison walls breaking And then a light, and in that light a girl Her fingers busied about her hair, her cool white arms Faint rosy at the elbows, raised in the sunlight, And temperate eyes that wander far away. Even now I seem to see my prison walls come close, Built up of darkness, and against that darkness A girl no taller than my breast and very tired, Leaning upon the bed and smiling, feeding A little bird and lying slender as ash trees, Sleepily aware as I told of the green Grapes and the small bright coloured river flowers. Even now I see her, as I used, in her white palace Under black torches throwing cool red light, Woven with many flowers and tearing the dark. I see her rising, showing all her face Defiant timidly, saying clearly: Now I shall go to sleep, goodnight, my ladies. Even now Though I am so far separate, a flight of birds Swinging from side to side over the valley trees, Passing my prison with their calling and crying, Bring me to see my girl. For very bird-like Is her song singing, and the state of a swan In her light walking, like the shaken wings Of a black eagle falls her nightly hair. Even now I know my princess was happy. I see her stand Touching her breasts with all her flower-soft fingers, Looking askance at me with smiling eyes. There is a god that arms him with a flower And she was stricken deep. Here, oh die here. Kiss me and I shall be purer than quick rivers. Even now They chatter her weakness through the two bazaars Who was so strong to love me. And small men That buy and sell for silver being slaves Crinkles the fat about their eyes; and yet No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her, Leading to his grim bed. Little lonely one, You cling to me as a garment clings; my girl. Even now Only one dawn shall rise for me. The stars Revolve tomorrow's night and I not heed. One brief cold watch beside an empty heart And that is all. This night she rests not well; Oh, sleep; for there is heaviness for all the world Except for the death-lighted heart of me. Even now My sole concern the slipping of her vests, Her little breasts the life beyond this life. One night of disarray in her green hems, Her golden cloths, outweighs the order of earth, Making of none effect the tides of the sea. I have seen her enter the temple meekly and there seem The flag of flowers that veils the very god. Even now I mind the coming and talking of wise men from towers Where they had thought away their youth. And I, listening, Found not the salt of the whispers of my girl, Murmur of confused colours, as we lay near sleep; Little wise words and little witty words, Wanton as water, honied with eagerness. Even now I call to mind her weariness in the morning Close lying in my arms, and tiredly smiling At my disjointed prayer for her small sake. Now in my morning the weariness of death Sends me to sleep. Had I made coffins I might have lived singing to three score. Even now The woodcutter and the fisherman turn home, With on his axe the moon and in his dripping net Caught yellow moonlight. The purple flame of fires Calls them to love and sleep. From the hot town The maker of scant songs for bread wanders To lie under the clematis with his girl. The moon shines on her breasts, and I must die. Even now I have a need to make up prayers, to speak My last consideration of the world To the great thirteen gods, to make my balance Ere the soul journeys on. I kneel and say: Father of Light. Leave we it burning still That I may look at you. Mother of the Stars, Give me your feet to kiss; I love you, dear. Even now I seem to see the face of my lost girl With frightened eyes, like a wood wanderer, In travail with sorrowful waters, unwept tears Labouring to be born and fall; when the white face turned And little ears caught at the far murmur, The pleased snarling of the tumult of dogs When I was hurried away down the white road. Even now When slow rose-yellow moons looked out at night To guard the sheaves of harvest and mark down The peach's fall, how calm she was and love worthy. Glass-coloured starlight falling as thin as dew Was wont to find us at the spirit's starving time Slow straying in the orchard paths with love. Even now Love is a god and Rati the dark his bride; But once I found their child and she was fairer, That could so shine. And we were each to each Wonderful and a presence not yet felt In any dream. I knew the sunset earth But as a red gold ring to bear my emerald Within the little summer of my youth. Even now I marvel at the bravery of love. She, whose two feet might be held in one hand And all her body on a shield of the guards, Lashed like a gold panther taken in a pit Tearfully valiant, when I too was taken; Bearding her black beard father in his wrath, Striking the soldiers with white impotent hands. Even now I mind that I loved cypress and roses, dear, The great blue mountains and the small grey hills, The sounding of the sea. Upon a day I saw strange eyes and hands like butterflies; For me at morning larks flew from the thyme And children came to bathe in little streams. Even now Sleep left me all these nights for your white bed And I am sure you sistered lay with sleep After much weeping. Piteous little love, Death is in the garden, time runs down, The year that simple and unexalted ran till now Ferments in winy autumn, and I must die. Even now I mind our going, full of bewilderment As who should walk from sleep into great light, Along the running of the winter river, A dying sun on the cool hurrying tide No more by green rushes delayed in dalliance, With a clear purpose in his flower flecked length Informed, to reach Nirvana and the sea. Even now I love long black eyes that caress like silk, Ever and ever sad and laughing eyes, Whose lids make such sweet shadow when they close It seems another beautiful look of hers. I love a fresh mouth, ah, a scented mouth, And curving hair, subtle as a smoke, And light fingers, and laughter of green gems. Even now I mind asking: Where love and how love Rati's priestesses? You can tell me of their washings at moon down And if that warm basin have silver borders. Is it so that when they comb their hair Their fingers, being purple stained, show Like coral branches in the black sea of their hair? Even now I remember that you made answer very softly, We being one soul, your hand on my hair, The burning memory rounding your near lips; I have seen the preistesses of Rati make love at moon fall And then in a carpeted hall with a bright gold lamp Lie down carelessly anywhere to sleep. Even now I have no surety that she is not Mahadevi Rose red of Siva, or Kapagata The wilful ripe Companion of the King, Or Krishna's own Lakshmi, the violet haired. I am not certain but that dark Brahma In his high secret purposes Has sent my soft girl down to make the three worlds mad With capering about her scented feet. Even now Call not the master painters from all the world, Their thin black beards, their rose and green and grey, Their ashes of lapis lazuli ultramarine, Their earth of shadows the umber. Laughing at art Sunlight upon the body of my bride, For painting not nor any eyes for ever. Oh warm tears on the body of my bride. Even now I mind when the red crowds were passed and it was raining How glad those two that shared the rain with me; For they talked happily with rich young voices And at the storm's increase, closer and with content, Each to the body of the other held As there were no more severance for ever. Even now The stainless fair appearance of the moon Rolls her gold beauty over an autumn sky And the stiff anchorite forgets to pray; How much the sooner I, if her wild mouth Tasting of the taste of manna came to mine And kept my soul at balance above a kiss. Even now Her mouth carelessly scented as with lotus dust Is water of love to the great heat of love, A tirtha very holy, a lover's lake Utterly sacred. Might I go down to it But one time more, then should I find a way To hold my lake for ever and ever more Sobbing out my life beside the waters. Even now I mind that the time of the falling of blossoms started my dream Into a wild life, into my girl; Then was the essence of her beauty spilled Down on my days so that it fades not, Fails not, subtle and fresh, in perfuming That day, and the days, and this the latest day. Even now She with young limbs as smooth as flower pollen, Whose swaying body is laved in the cool Waters of languor, the dear bright-coloured bird, Walks not, changes not, advances not Her weary station by the black lake Of Gone Forever, in whose fountain vase Balance the water-lilies of my thought. Even now Spread we our nets beyond the farthest rims So surely that they take the feet of dawn Before you wake and after you are sleeping Catch up the visible and invisible stars And web the ports the strongest dreamer dreamed, Yet it is all one, Vidya, yet it is nothing. Even now The night is full of silver straws of rain, And I will send my soul to see your body This last poor time. I stand beside your bed; Your shadowed head lies leaving a bright space Upon the pillow empty, your sorrowful arm Holds from your side and clasps at anything. There is no covering upon you. Even now I think your feet seek mine to comfort them. There is some dream about you even now Which I'll not hear at waking. Weep not at dawn, Though day brings wearily your daily loss And all the light is hateful. Now it is time To bring my soul away. Even now I mind that I went round with men and women, And underneath their brows, deep in their eyes, I saw their souls, which go slipping aside In swarms before the pleasure of my mind; The world was like a flight of birds, shadow or flame Which I saw pass above the engraven hills. Yet there was never one like to my girl. Even now Death I take up as consolation. Nay, were I free as the condor with his wings Or old kings throned on voilet ivory, Night would not come without beds of green floss And never a bed without my bright darling. It is most fit that you strike now, black guards, And let this fountain out before the dawn. Even now I know that I have savoured the hot taste of life Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast. Just for a small and a forgotten time I have had full in my eyes from off my girl The whitest pouring of eternal light . The heavy knife. As to a gala day.[/font] Translated from the Sanskrit of Chauras (Chaura-panchasika, 1st century) by Powys Mathers, Love Songs of Asia, Knopf, 1946. Pub. Basil Blackwell, Oxford 1919

And so we come at last to Black Marigolds, a Sanskrit poem that has been called "the greatest love poem ever written". According to legend, the Brahman Bilhana fell in love with the daughter of King Madanabhirama, Princess Yaminipurnatilaka, and had a secretive love affair. They were discovered, and Bilhana was thrown into prison. While awaiting judgement, he wrote the Caurapâñcâśikâ, a fifty-stanza love poem, not knowing whether he would be sent into exile or die on the gallows. It is unknown what fate Bilhana encountered

He shall seat himself with thought intent and the workings of mind and sense instruments restrained, for purification of spirit labour on the yoga. Firm, holding body, head, and neck in unmoving equipoise, gazing on the end of his nose, and looking not round about him. Calm of spirit, void of fear, abiding under the vow of chastity, with mind restrained and thought set on Me, so shall he sit that is under the Rule, given over unto Me. In this wise the yogi … comes to the peace that ends in nirvana and that abides in Me (Bhagavad Gita, VI, 12-15).

That virtue of originality that men so strain after is not newness (as they vainly think), it is only genuineness; it all depends on this single glorious faculty of getting to the spring of things and working out from that. John Ruskin

India is wont to suggest the eternal and inexpressible infinities in terms of sensuous beauty. The love of man for woman or for nature are one with his love for God. Nothing is common or unclean. All life is a sacrament, no part of it more so than another, and there is no part of it that may not symbolize eternal and infinite things. Coomaraswamy

Exceeding great is the toil of these whose mind is attached to the Unshown; for the Unshown Way is painfully won by them that wear the body. But as for them who, having cast all works on Me and given themselves over to Me, worship Me in meditation, with whole hearted yoga. These speedily I lift up from the sea of death and life, O Pârtha, their minds being set on Me Bhagavad Gitä, XII, 5-7

The Tamil poetess Auwai was once rebuked by a priest for irreverence, in stretching out her limbs towards an image of God: “You say well, Sir,” she answered, “yet if you will point out to me a direction where God is not, I will there stretch out my limbs.” Coomaraswamy [/img]

O Lord, pardon my three sins: I have in contemplation clothed in form Thyself that hast no form; I have in praise described Thee who dost transcend all qualities; and in visiting shrines I have ignored Thine omni-presence Sankarâcârya

That figure is best which by its action best expresses the passion that animates it. Leonardo de Vinci

You see, it is these things of the soul that are real—the only real things in the universe. Edward Burne-Jones

But why not do as well as say,—paint these Just as they are, careless what comes of it? God’s works—paint any one… …Have you noticed, now, Yon cullion’s hanging face? A bit of chalk, And trust me but you should though! How much more If I drew higher things with the same truth! That were to take the Prior’s pulpit-place, Interpret God to all of you! Robert Browning [/img]

Much of the criticism applied to works of art in modern times is based upon the idea of “truth to nature”. The first thing for which many people look in a work of art is for something to recognize; and if the representation is of something they have not seen, or symbolizes some unfamiliar abstract idea, it is thereby self-condemned as untrue to nature. What, after all, is reality and what is truth? The Indian thinker answers that nature, the phenomenal world that is, is known to him only through sensation, and that he has no warrant for supposing that sensations convey to him any adequate conception of the intrinsic reality of things in themselves; nay, he denies that they have any such reality apart from himself. At most, natural forms are but incarnations of ideas, and each is but an incomplete expression. It is for the artist to portray the ideal world (Rûpa-loka) of true reality, the world of imagination; and this very word imagination, or visualisation, expresses the method he must employ. Coomaraswamy

It cannot be too clearly understood that the mere representation of nature is never the aim of Indian art. Probably no truly Indian sculpture has been wrought from a living model, or any religious painting copied from life. Possibly no Hindu artist of the old schools ever drew from nature at all. His store of memory pictures, his power of visualisation and his imagination were, for his purpose, finer means: for he desired to suggest the Idea behind sensuous appearance, not to give the detail of the seeming reality, that was in truth but mâyâ, illusion. For in spite of the pantheistic accommodation of infinite truth to the capacity of finite minds, whereby God is conceived as entering into all things, Nature remains to the Hindu a veil, not a revelation; and art is to be something more than a mere imitation of this mâyâ, it is to manifest what lies behind. To mistake the maya for reality were error indeed. Coomaraswamy

The paintings have deteriorated significantly since they were rediscovered, and a number of 19th-century copies and drawings are important for a complete understanding of the works. However the earliest projects to copy the paintings were plagued by bad fortune. In 1846 Major Robert Gill, an Army officer from Madras presidency and a painter, was appointed by the Royal Asiatic Society to replicate the frescoes on the cave walls to exhibit these paintings in England.Gill worked on his painting at the site from 1844 to 1863 (though he continued to be based there until his death in 1875, writing books and photographing) and made 27 copies of large sections of murals, but all but four were destroyed in a fire at the Crystal Palace in London in 1866, where they were on display. Another attempt was made in 1872 when the Bombay Presidency commissioned John Griffiths, then principle of the Bombay School of Art to work with his students to make new copies, again for shipping to England. They worked on this for thirteen years and some 300 canvases were produced, many of which were displayed at the Imperial Institute on Exhibition Road in London, one of the forerunners of the Victoria and Albert Museum. But in 1885 another fire destroyed over a hundred paintings that were in store. The V&A still has 166 paintings surviving from both sets, though none have been on permanent display since 1955. The largest are some 3 x 6 metres. A conservation project was undertaken on about half of them in 2006, also involving the University of Northumbria.Griffith and his students had unfortunately painted many of the paintings with "cheap varnish" in order to make them easier to see, which has added to the deterioration of the originals, as has, according to Spink and others, recent cleaning by the ASI. A further set of copies were made between 1909 and 1911 by Christiana Herringham (Lady Herringham) and a group of students from the Calcutta School of Art that included the future Indian Modernist painter Nandalal Bose.

On 28 April 1819, a British officer for the Madras Presidency, John Smith, of the 28th Cavalry, while hunting tiger, accidentally discovered the entrance deep within the tangled undergrowth. There were local people already using the caves for prayers with a small fire, when he arrived. Exploring that first cave, long since a home to nothing more than birds and bats and a lair for other larger animals, Captain Smith vandalized the wall by scratching his name and the date, April 1819. Within a few decades, the caves became famous for their exotic setting, impressive architecture, and above all their exceptional, all but unique paintings.

The caves include paintings and sculptures described by the government Archaeological Survey of India as "the finest surviving examples of Indian art, particularly painting", which are masterpieces of Buddhist religious art.

The area was previously heavily forested, and after the site ceased to be used the caves were covered by jungle until accidentally rediscovered in 1819 by a British officer on a hunting party.

Ajanta means “place of tigers”. The caves are cut into the side of a cliff that is on the south side of a U-shaped gorge on the small river Waghora (or Wagura), and although they are now along and above a modern pathway running across the cliff they were originally reached by individual stairs or ladders from the side of the river 35 to 110 feet below.