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The Three-bodied Daemon from the western pediment of Hekatompedon, archaic temple at the Acropolis of Athens
(Also known as the Bluebeard pediment or interpreted as Typhon/Tritopatreis/Nereus)c. 575 BC - 550 BC
Photographed by Frédéric Boissonnas1919

The Three-bodied Daemon from the western pediment of Hekatompedon, archaic temple at the Acropolis of Athens

(Also known as the Bluebeard pediment or interpreted as Typhon/Tritopatreis/Nereus)

c. 575 BC - 550 BC

Photographed by Frédéric Boissonnas
1919

Terracotta fragment of a votive relief depicting Hades abducting Persephone
Greek
470–460 B.C.

Terracotta fragment of a votive relief depicting Hades abducting Persephone

Greek

470–460 B.C.

Landscape with the Nymph Egeria and King Numa (detail)
Claude Lorrain
1669

Landscape with the Nymph Egeria and King Numa (detail)

Claude Lorrain

1669

Une des Corés de l’Acropole(One of the Korai from the Acropolis)Frédéric Boissonnas
1919

Une des Corés de l’Acropole
(One of the Korai from the Acropolis)

Frédéric Boissonnas

1919

Beyond this village, other villages; beyond this abbey, other abbeys; and after the fortress, more fortresses still. And each of these castles of stone and each wooden hut has its structure of fixed ideas or flimsy, ill-based opinions superposed above it within which fools stay immured, but the wise find apertures for escape.
— Marguerite Yourcenar, “The Abyss”
To Diotima by Friedrich Hölderlin

Beautiful being, you live as do delicate blossoms in winter,
In the world that’s grown old hidden you blossom, alone.
Lovingly outward you press to bask in the light of the springtime,
To be warmed by it still, look for the youth of the world.
But your sun, the lovelier world, has gone down now,
And the quarreling gales rage in an icy bleak night.

The Long Cellar at Petworth
Joseph Mallord William Turner
1835

The Long Cellar at Petworth

Joseph Mallord William Turner

1835

Indische Fuerstin(Indian Princess)
Alfred Kubin
1906

Indische Fuerstin
(Indian Princess)

Alfred Kubin

1906

From the Journals of Eugène Delacroix, April 28, 1854
I have been thinking of the freshness of memories and of their power to lend enchantment to the distant past, and I have been marveling at the way in which our minds involuntarily suppress and brush aside anything that spoiled the charms of those happy moments when we were actually living them. I have been comparing this kind of idealization, for such it is, with the effect that great works of art have on the imagination. A great painter concentrates the interest by suppressing details that are useless, offensive, or foolish; his mighty hand orders and prescribes, adding to or taking away from the objects in his pictures, and treating them as his own creatures; he ranges freely throughout his kingdom and gives you a feast of his own choosing, whereas, with the second-rate artist, you feel that he is master of nothing; he wields no authority over his accumulation of borrowed materials. Indeed, what possible order can he establish in a work where everything dominates him? All that he can do is to invent timidly and to copy slavishly and therefore, instead of suppressing the other aspects as one’s imagination does, he gives them equal, if not greater importance by the slavishness of his imitation, so that everything in his work becomes confused and insipid. If, among this hotchpotch of other people’s ideas, some degree of interest or even of charm should appear because of the personal inspiration he may have put into the work, I liken it to real life and to the flashes of pleasure and disgust that go to compose it. And just as in the patchwork compositions of my semi-artists the good is smothered by the bad, so in our lives, we scarcely noticed the moments of happiness, spoiled as they are by our continual anxieties.

Can any man say with certainty that he was happy at a particular moment of time what he remembers as being delightful? Remembering it certainly makes him happy, because he realizes how happy he could happen, but at the actual moment when the alleged happiness was occurring, did he really feel happy? He was like a man owning a piece of ground in which, unknown to himself, a treasure lay buried. You would not call such a man rich, neither would I call happy the man who is so without realizing it, or without knowing the extent of his happiness.

cmog:

Sack-shaped Beaker, Roman Empire; Eastern Mediterranean, 1-199. Bequest of Jerome Strauss. 79.1.237. (via Sack-shaped Beaker | Corning Museum of Glass)

cmog:

Sack-shaped Beaker, Roman Empire; Eastern Mediterranean, 1-199. Bequest of Jerome Strauss. 79.1.237. (via Sack-shaped Beaker | Corning Museum of Glass)

(via classicsenthusiast)

The Bay of Baiae, with Apollo and the Sibyl
Joseph Mallord William Turner
1823

The Bay of Baiae, with Apollo and the Sibyl

Joseph Mallord William Turner

1823

composersdoingnormalshit:

Arvo Pärt showing off his chicken. 
Happy Birthday, Arvo Pärt!

composersdoingnormalshit:

Arvo Pärt showing off his chicken. 

Happy Birthday, Arvo Pärt!

Wondering I look at you, voices and lovely song
As from distant times, music of strings, I hear
And the lily unfolds her
Fragrance, golden above the brook.
— Friedrich Hölderlin, “Der Abschied” (second version)
THEME BY PARTI