Prints by Ugandan artist Estelle Betty Manyolo Sangowawa, otherwise known as Betty Manyolo.
A Question about Art
By DERRICK AUSTIN (as published in Wildness)
Rome from the Pincio
Camille Corot
1826–1827
Oil on canvas
At a potluck, early on when everything but the wine glasses were clean, unpicked cheese sweating on plastic plates, small talk agitating the air, someone cornered me with: “If you could own any painting, what would it be?” They meant a famous painting or a painting by someone famous—to keep the conversation moving. To hang in my bedroom or beside my writing desk. This is why I don’t have tattoos. Imagine having to look at an image forever, I could have said. Instead I launched: “I saw once, in Dublin, during a year my spirit felt arid and pinched from grief, a perfect picture by Corot. It inspired in me what people used to call covetousness, and not because it was priceless or important. There are certain small pictures that you can feel yourself turning into a squint to look at—leaning tensely forward—but this one invites you to step naturally to it, so warm yet elusive is its light. Has it just finished raining—in summer or fall? Morning or dusk? Is the mood obscure, sad, serious, pious, wistful, plaintive, magnificent, or joyful? Saint Peter’s isn’t actually visible from there, nor the green slopes and earth-tone city. The stone pine on the right has a knobby trunk and shadowy canopy and thick, wavy branches. Its companion catches the wind in whooshing leaves. A priest listens to four streams pour from a wide basin. The hill looks like a place to meet an old friend or long for one.”
By DERRICK AUSTIN (as published in Wildness)
Rome from the Pincio
Camille Corot
1826–1827
Oil on canvas
At a potluck, early on when everything but the wine glasses were clean, unpicked cheese sweating on plastic plates, small talk agitating the air, someone cornered me with: “If you could own any painting, what would it be?” They meant a famous painting or a painting by someone famous—to keep the conversation moving. To hang in my bedroom or beside my writing desk. This is why I don’t have tattoos. Imagine having to look at an image forever, I could have said. Instead I launched: “I saw once, in Dublin, during a year my spirit felt arid and pinched from grief, a perfect picture by Corot. It inspired in me what people used to call covetousness, and not because it was priceless or important. There are certain small pictures that you can feel yourself turning into a squint to look at—leaning tensely forward—but this one invites you to step naturally to it, so warm yet elusive is its light. Has it just finished raining—in summer or fall? Morning or dusk? Is the mood obscure, sad, serious, pious, wistful, plaintive, magnificent, or joyful? Saint Peter’s isn’t actually visible from there, nor the green slopes and earth-tone city. The stone pine on the right has a knobby trunk and shadowy canopy and thick, wavy branches. Its companion catches the wind in whooshing leaves. A priest listens to four streams pour from a wide basin. The hill looks like a place to meet an old friend or long for one.”
Having my accounts get a little rocked rn. Here is me going on record to state that I would *literally never* try to sell you something, and definitely not crypto bullshit. I'll let you know once I think I have things under control.
Prints by Scottish painter and engraver William Miller, found in Loddiges Botanical Cabinet.
Highland Mary
By ROBERT BURNS
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There Simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry:
For there I took the last Fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom;
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden Hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder:
But Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance,
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
By ROBERT BURNS
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There Simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry:
For there I took the last Fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom;
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden Hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder:
But Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance,
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
An interesting note about Morisot is that, despite using a fairly limited palette, she was known as an excellent colorist. A big part of this is her use of gradations of white to create various effects in her painting, such as the way light interacts with fabric.