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He was infamous for his role as "Mrs. Mary Midnight" and widespread accounts of his father-in-law, John Newbery, locking him away in a mental asylum for many years over his religious "mania". Smart's two best-known works are A Song to David and Jubilate Agno , both written at least partly during his confinement in asylum. Jubilate Agno was not published until Wie Despoten enden, hat's dich Nicht gelehrt des Bruders Beispiel? Nicht gelehrt des Vaters Beispiel? Nicht des Vaters-Vaters Beispiel? Blutig fingst auch du zu herrschen An! August von Platen, ; aus den "Polenliedern".

November ist ein deutscher Lyriker und Essayist; Autor gesellschaftskritischer Lyrik z. Wort und Vers werden mit anscheinend spielerischer Leistung gehandhabt, u. Comment Buttercups and Daisies I never see a young hand hold The starry bunch of white and gold, But something warm and fresh will start About the region of my heart; - My smile expires into a sigh; I feel a struggling in my eye, 'Twixt humid drop and sparkling ray, Till rolling tears have won their way; For, soul and brain will travel back, Through memory's chequer'd mazes, To days, when I but trod life's track For buttercups and daisies.

There seems a bright and fairy spell About there very names to dwell; And though old Time has mark'd my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Smile, if you will, but some heartstrings Are closest link'd to simplest things; And these wild flowers will hold mine fast, Till love, and life, and all be past; And then the only wish I have Is, that the one who raises The turf sod o'er me, plant my grave With buttercups and daisies. Eliza Cook — Valentine Not a red rose or a satin heart. I give you an onion. It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light like the careful undressing of love. It will blind you with tears like a lover. It will make your reflection a wobbling photo of grief. I am trying to be truthful. Not a cute card or a kissogram. Dezember in Glasgow ist eine schottische Lyrikerin und Dramatikerin. Comment "There was a man and he was mad" There was a man and he was mad And he ran up the steeple, And there he cut his nose off And flung it at the people.

Comment Vergissmeinnicht Three weeks gone and the combatants gone, returning over the nightmare ground we found the place again, and found the soldier sprawling in the sun. The frowning barrel of his gun overshadowing. As we came on that day, he hit my tank with one like the entry of a demon. Here in the gunpit spoil the dishonoured picture of his girl who has put: Steffi.

Vergissmeinnicht in a copybook gothic script. But she would weep to see today how on his skin the swart flies move; the dust upon the paper eye and the burst stomach like a cave. For here the lover and killer are mingled who had one body and one heart. And death who had the soldier singled has done the lover mortal hurt. Keith Douglas , English poet, killed in action in France.

I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds,-and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of-wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there, I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air June 9, — December 11, was an Anglo-American aviator and poet who died as a result of a mid-air collision over Lincolnshire during World War II.

Comment Monet's Waterlilies Today as the news from Selma and Saigon poisons the air like fallout, I come again to see the serene, great picture that I love. Here space and time exist in light the eye like the eye of faith believes. The seen, the known dissolve in iridescence, become illusive flesh of light that was not, was, forever is. He was appointed Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in Comment The Invisible With a flutter and a pitterpat The pigeon settles on the parapet.

Draw down from your palate then A tightening tongue, and cluck. The pigeon turns his iridescent head, But how he hears is anybody's guess. By what other channel than an ear, When he has none, can any pigeon hear? Along the parapet he waddles, next, Not closer, but away, and eyeing still The middle of a nowhere Schumann said , Root of a distress my tongue alerts him to. A second triple claw touches the parapet, And fear is a force, molding the invisible. No big deal, pigeon. You are wise to scare; Wiser than me to see nobody there.

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Christopher Middleton b. Comment Naturgesetze und psychologische Gesetze I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I waterd it in fears, Night and morning with my tears: And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright. And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine. And into my garden stole. When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning glad I see, My foe outstretchd beneath the tree. William Blake — And on Tuesday he fell on the hill And the happy lamb Never knew why the loud collie straddled him.

And on Wednesday he fell on a bush And the blackbird Laid by his little flute for the last time. George Mackay Brown , splendid Orkney poet who wrote in English. I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it. I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things; That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings. I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do; For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two. This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass, And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.

It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied; But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside. If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade. I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free. Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door, Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store. But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone For the lack of something within it that it has never known.

But a house that has done what a house should do, a house that has sheltered life, That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife, A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet, Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet. So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back, Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart, For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

Joyce Kilmer December 6, — July 30, was an American journalist, poet, literary critic, lecturer, and editor. Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride! And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow! Where got ye that winsome marrow? Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? Why on thy braes is heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow. O dule and sorrow! As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed; As green its grass, its gowan as yellow; As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple from its rocks as mellow.

Busk, ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! How can I busk, a winsome marrow? For there was basely slain my love— My love as he had not been a lover. I little, little knew He was in these to meet his ruin! With bridal sheets my body cover!

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Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door; Let in the expected husband lover! His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. Ah me! No youth lay ever there before thee. O lovely, lovely youth! Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter; And lie all night between my breasts! No youth shall ever lie there after. Return, and dry thy useless sorrow! Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs— He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. His health is said to have been delicate, leading him to spend a deal of his time indoors, in study; where he become enthusiastic about literature, and began to write poetry.

The song is believed to be based on an actual incident. The hero of the ballad was a knight of great bravery, popularly believed to be John Scott, sixth son of the Laird of Harden. According to history, he met a treacherous and untimely death in Ettrick Forest at the hands of his kin, the Scotts of Gilmanscleugh in the seventeenth century. However, recent scholars are sceptical about this story as the origin of the song. To equip, prepare, make ready. To adorn, to deck, dress up.

Of people: tall. Comment At The Ball Game The crowd at the ball game is moved uniformly by a spirit of uselessness which delights them -- all the exciting detail of the chase and the escape, the error the flash of genius Comment Not Waving But Drowning Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. All the poet has to do is listen. The poet is not an important fellow. There will always be another poet. Comment The Bonnie Broukit Bairn Mars is braw in crammasy, Venus in a green silk goun, The auld mune shak's her gowden feathers, Their starry talk's a wheen o' blethers, Nane for thee a thochtie sparin', Earth, thou bonnie broukit bairn!

Comment Hugh MacDiarmid When he speaks a small sentence he is a man who presses a plunger that will blow the face off a cliff. Or he dynamites a ramshackle idea--when the dust settles, what structures shine in the sun. Comment Die Gedanken sind frei Fassung um 1. Es bleibet dabei: Die Gedanken sind frei. Die Gedanken sind frei Wer kann sie erraten? Die Gedanken sind frei. Comment Atlantis--A Lost Sonnet How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder that a whole city--arches, pillars, colonnades, not to mention vehicles and animals--had all one fine day gone under?

And so, in the best traditions of where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name and drowned it. Comment Phillipp: Ja, die schottische und irische Dichtung ist bisher zu kurz gekommen. Die zweite Strophe sollte eigentlich so anfangen:. There seems a bright and fairy spell About their very names to dwell; And though old Time has mark'd my brow With care and thought, I love them now. Chaostranslater: Several critics, both Kilmer's contemporaries and modern scholars, disparaged Kilmer's work as being too simple, overly sentimental, and suggested that his style was far too traditional, even archaic.

Stevie Smith kannte ich noch nicht. Die Haltung, die sie in ihren Gedichten einnimmt, ist recht eigenwillig und originell. It is a human face that hides A monkey soul within, That bangs about, that beats a gong, That makes a horrid din. Sometimes the monkey soul will sprawl Athwart the human eyes, And peering forth, will flesh its pads, And utter social lies. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation. Comment A Wasted Illness Through vaults of pain, Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness, I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain To dire distress.

Thereon ahead I saw a door extend - The door to death. And yet Those backward steps through pain I cannot view Without regret. Thomas Hardy 2 June — 11 January After years of writing novels to earn his living — novels which contain seams of poetry, but in which he felt constrained to work to the demands of the market — poetry came to him as a relief and a pleasure. Extract from intro: Poems of Thomas Hardy. Selected and Introduced by Claire Tomalin, which does not include the above poem.

Sie sagten: "Du hast eine blaue Gitarre, Du spielst die Dinge nicht, wie sie sind. Doch endlich kamen sie einander in die Haare, Und ihre Republik versank in Anarchie. Ha, rief das arme Volk mit tiefgesenkten Ohren Und mit geschundner Haut, was haben wir getan! Gottlieb Konrad Pfeffel: Satiriker und Philanthrop, All things counter, original, spare, strange; ::Whatever is fickle, freckled who knows how? Juni in Dublin war ein britischer Lyriker und Jesuit, dessen Gedichte vor allem wegen der Lebendigkeit ihres Ausdrucks bewundert werden. The day was green.

They said, "You have a blue guitar, You do not play things as they are. Wallace Stevens.

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Then Napoleon took over the plan to build the mill. While the animals starved and slaved under the slogan, "I will work harder," the pigs moved into Jones's farmhouse, and the glorification of the Leader as Comrade Napoleon was now called became systematic. Hens were sometimes heard to say: "Under the guidance of our Leader, Comrade Napoleon, I have laid five eggs in six days. Fountain of happiness! Lord of the swill-bucket! Thou art the giver of All that thy creature love, Full belly twice a day, clean straw to roll upon; Every beast great or small Sleeps at peace in his stall, Thou watchest over all, Comrade Napoleon!

George Orwell — The Seven Commandments 1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend. No animal shall wear clothes. No animal shall sleep in a bed. No animal shall drink alcohol. No animal shall kill any other animal. All animals are equal. Comment A Marriage We met under a shower of bird-notes. Fifty years passed, love's moment And she, who in life had done everything with a bird's grace, opened her bill now for the shedding of one sigh no heavier than a feather. Thomas , walisischer Lyriker, der auf englisch schrieb.

Seine kurze Autobiographie verfasste er auf Walisisch. You make it for yourself firstly, and then if other people want to join in then there we are. Comment Friendship A ruddy drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs, The world uncertain comes and goes; The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was fled,- And, after many a year, Glowed unexhausted kindliness, Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again, O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red; All things through thee take nobler form, And look beyond the earth, The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth.

Me too thy nobleness had taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair. I know your lust Is love. Sceptic Thomas! Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true? Emily Dickinson , konnte ich mir nach nicht verkneifen Is the blue changed above thee, O world! Will you change every flower that grows, Or only change this spot, Where she who said, I love thee, Now says, I love thee not? The skies seemed true above thee, The rose true on the tree; The bird seemed true the summer through, But all proved false to me.

Zweifelnder Thomas! Echt war dein Vogel, fragst du nun noch? John Clare 13 July — 20 May was an English poet, born in Helpston, Northamptonshire, the son of a farm labourer who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption. In summer quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day, I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown up people's feet Still going past me in the street, And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?

Robert Louis Stevenson —94, Scottish novelist, poet, and essayist,. Comment The Invitation It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing. It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow.

If you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with JOY, mine or your own; If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstacy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being a human. It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true.

Soon, a bronze Adonis — ogling girls! It must be done! You will realise What a position it puts Me in. I couldn't really Have died for you if so I were inclined. The carn Foxglove here on the wall Outside your first house Leans with me standing In the Zennor wind. Anyhow how are things? Are you still somewhere With your long legs And twitching smile under Your blue hat walking Across a place? Or am I greedy to make you up Again out of memory?

Graham , Graham was born in Greenock, Scotland. His first book, Cage Without Grievance was published in Er hat's begangen, Er hat's vollbracht! Er baute Tempel Dem Teufel selbst! Er hat's begangen, Er ist erkannt! Er ist ein Satan, Die Maske fiel! Sie singen laut ihm Triumph, Triumph! Doch ach, es graut ihm, Wie sehr sie dudeln! Harpy'n besudeln Gesalbtes Haupt. August von Platen , Aus den "Polenliedern".

Bett stinkt bei Bett. Komm, hebe ruhig diese Decke auf. Das Fleisch ist weich und schmerzt nicht. Gottfried Benn - gilt als einer der bedeutendsten deutschen Dichter der literarischen Moderne. Comment Oh ja, ein paar deutschsprachige Lyriker dazu ist auch nicht schlecht. Comment Und wie lautet der Titel zu diesem Gedicht, Phillipp? Erscheint auf S. Die letzten zwei Zeilen sind gut.

Aber dann wie kann es ja anders sein? Aber wie gesagt: Danke! Comment Der alte Lear will abtreten. Cordelia: Then poor Cordelia! Cordelia: Nothing, my lord. Lear: Nothing? Cordelia: Nothing. Lear: Nothing will come of nothing: speak again. Lear: How, how, Cordelia! Mend your speech a little, Lest you may mar your fortunes. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all? Happily, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty: Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all.

Lear: But goes thy heart with this? Cordelia: Ay, my good Lord. Lear: So young, and so untender? Cordelia: So young, my Lord, and true. Lear: Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower: For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate, and the night; By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist, and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee, from this, for ever.

The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and relieved, As thou my sometime daughter. Comment Furcht der Geliebten Cidli, du weinest, und ich schlumre sicher, Wo im Sande der Weg verzogen fortschleicht; Auch wenn stille Nacht ihn umschattend decket, Schlumr' ich ihn sicher. Weine nicht, Cidli. Inhalt und Form decken sich auch vollkommen. Er war ein junger Schmetterling, Der selig an der Blume hing.

Ach Gott, wie das dem Schmetterling So schmerzlich durch die Seele ging. Doch was am meisten ihn entsetzt, Das Allerschlimmste kam zuletzt. Wilhelm Busch - Comment Klasse!! Die Kraft, infolge der Erregung, Verwandelt sich in Schwungbewegung. Bewegung, die in schnellem Blitze Zur Backe eilt, wird hier zu Hitze.

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  7. Comment Danke, Chaostranslater. Es lohnt sich, den "einflussreichsten humoristischen Dichter und Zeichner Deutschlands" Wikip. Hier noch ein weiteres Gedichtchen: Wirklich, er war unentbehrlich! Ohne ihn war nichts zu machen, Keine Stunde hatt' er frei. Gestern, als sie ihn begruben, War er richtig auch dabei. Wilhelm Busch aus: Kritik des Herzens Comment Seine Lyrik zeichnet sich durch eine einfache, die Nachkriegsgesellschaft in ihrer ideellen Leere spiegelnde Sprache aus, die beim Leser dennoch komplexe Assoziationen und Bilder evoziert.

    There's sound of distant thunder. The latest sea-birds hover Along the cliff's sheer height; As in the memory wander Last flutterings of delight, White wings lost on the white. There's not a ship in sight; And as the sun goes under, Thick clouds conspire to cover The moon that should rise yonder. Thou art alone, fond lover. Robert Seymour Bridges — Detlev von Liliencron - Sie aalt sich im Sand und zeigt alles her. Sie gibt der Sonne reichlich zu schaun. Aber zum 4. Todestag gest.

    Juni , konnte ich einfach nicht widerstehen. Summer's heat can swelter and melt As summer's heat may simmer as weld. Some summer's heat can burn as long This summer's heat can impel a song. Summer's heat can cook and bake Summer's heat of life can take. Boil and broil a heart so hot Comment At the Fishhouses Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, a dark purple-brown, and his shuttle worn and polished.

    The air smells so strong of codfish it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water. The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up to storerooms in the gables for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, is opaque, but the silver of the benches, the lobster pots, and masts, scattered among the wild jagged rocks, is of an apparent translucence like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls.

    The big fish tubs are completely lined with layers of beautiful herring scales The water seems suspended above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones. I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, icily free above the stones, above the stones and then the world. If you should dip your hand in, your wrist would ache immediately, your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn as if the water were a transmutation of fire that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.

    If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, then briny, then surely burn your tongue. It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, drawn from the cold hard mouth of the world, derived from the rocky breasts forever, flowing and drawn, and since our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

    The population numbered two giants, an idiot, a dwarf, a gentle storekeeper asleep behind his counter, and our kind landlady— the dwarf was her dressmaker. The idiot could be beguiled by picking blackberries, but then threw them away. The shrunken seamstress smiled. He was morose, but she was cheerful. The bedroom was cold, the feather bed close. We were awakened in the dark by the somnambulist brook nearing the sea, still dreaming audibly.

    Comment ich was not yet in brasilien nach brasilien wuld ich laik du go wer de wimen arr so ander so quait ander denn anderwo ich was not yet in brasilien nach brasilien wuld ich laik du go als ich anderschdehn mange lanquidsch will ich anderschdehn auch lanquidsch in rioo Juli , S. Comment Between the Dusk of a Summer Night Between the dusk of a summer night And the dawn of a summer day, We caught at a mood as it passed in flight, And we bade it stoop and stay. And what with the dawn of night began With the dusk of day was done; For that is the way of woman and man, When a hazard has made them one.

    Arc upon arc, from shade to shine, The World went thundering free; And what was his errand but hers and mine -- The lords of him, I and she? O, it's die we must, but it's live we can, And the marvel of earth and sun Is all for the joy of woman and man And the longing that makes them one. Comment Innerlichkeit, Paarreime und Katharsis einer Leserin The More Loving One Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast.

    How should we like it were stars to burn With a passion for us we could not return? If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me. Were all stars to disappear or die, I should learn to look at an empty sky And feel its total dark sublime, Though this might take me a little time. Comment The Sons of Martha The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part; But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.

    And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest, Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.

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    It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock. It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock. It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain, Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main. They say to mountains, 'Be ye removed. Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit -- then is the bed of the deep laid bare, That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

    They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires. He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires. Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall, And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall. To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.

    They are concerned with matters hidden -- under the earthline their altars are -- The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth, And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth. They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose. They do not teach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they dam'-well choose.

    As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand, Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land. Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat -- Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!

    Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed, But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need. And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed -- they know the Angels are on their side. They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied. They sit at the Feet -- they hear the Word -- they see how truly the Promise runs. Rudyard Kipling - April in Brachthausen, Sauerland ist eine deutsche Schriftstellerin. Sie schreibt Lyrik und Romane. Heute lebt sie in Hamburg und ist mit Klaus von Dohnanyi verheiratet.

    VERLAG FÜR MODERNE KUNST Spring by Verlag für moderne Kunst - Issuu

    O plain as plain can be There's nothing but our own red blood Can make a right Rose Tree. He also suggests that Ireland would be green again if this conflict stopped and Irish blood has been spilt. Comment Two Months June No hope, no change! The clouds have shut us in, And through the cloud the sullen Sun strikes down Full on the bosom of the tortured Town, Till Night falls heavy as remembered sin That will not suffer sleep or thought of ease, And, hour on hour, the dry-eyed Moon in spite Glares through the haze and mocks with watery light The torment of the uncomplaining trees.

    Far off, the Thunder bellows her despair To echoing Earth, thrice parched. The lightnings fly In vain. No help the heaped-up clouds afford, But wearier weight of burdened, burning air. What truce with Dawn? Look, from the aching sky, Day stalks, a tyrant with a flaming sword! September At dawn there was a murmur in the trees, A ripple on the tank, and in the air Presage of coming coolness -- everywhere A voice of prophecy upon the breeze.

    Up leapt the Sun and smote the dust to gold, And strove to parch anew the heedless land, All impotently, as a King grown old Wars for the Empire crumbling 'neath his hand. One after one the lotos-petals fell, Beneath the onslaught of the rebel year, In mutiny against a furious sky; And far-off Winter whispered: -- "It is well! Behold your help is near, "For when men's need is sorest, then come I.

    Rudyard Kipling fehlte hier noch.

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    Und wie viele andere Leser kannte ich Kipling eigentlich nur vom Dschungelbuch her. Rose of All the World I am here myself; as though this heave of effort At starting other life, fulfilled my own; Rose-leaves that whirl in colour round a core Of seed-specks kindled lately and softly blown By all the blood of the rose-bush into being - Strange, that the urgent will in me, to set My mouth on hers in kisses, and so softly To bring together two strange sparks, beget Another life from our lives, so should send The innermost fire of my own dim soul out-spinning And whirling in blossom of flame and being upon me!

    That my completion of manhood should be the beginning Another life from mine! For so it looks. The seed is purpose, blossom accident. The seed is all in all, the blossom lent To crown the triumph of this new descent. Is that it, woman? Does it strike you so? The Great Breath blowing a tiny seed of fire Fans out your petals for excess of flame, Till all your being smokes with fine desire?

    Or are we kindled, you and I, to be One rose of wonderment upon the tree Of perfect life, and is our possible seed But the residuum of the ecstasy? How will you have it? The sharp begetting, or the child begot? Our consummation matters, or does it not? To me it seems the seed is just left over From the red rose-flowers' fiery transience; Just orts and slarts; berries that smoulder in the bush Which burnt just now with marvellous immanence.

    Blossom, my darling, blossom, be a rose Of roses unchidden and purposeless; a rose For rosiness only, without an ulterior motive; For me it is more than enough if the flower unclose. Lawrence — Wie ist die Zeit vertan! Der Port naht mehr und mehr sich zu der Glieder Kahn.

    Gleich wie dies Licht verfiel, so wird in wenig Jahren Ich, du, und was man hat, und was man sieht, hinfahren. Dein ewig heller Glanz sei vor und neben mir! Andreas Gryphius - Ich war zornig auf den Feind; schwieg: mein Zorn vermehrte sich. Tiefer neigt sich das Korn, der rote Mohn. Das alte Lied der Grille erstirbt im Feld. Nimmer regt sich das Laub der Kastanie. Auf der Wendeltreppe rauscht dein Kleid.

    Der wird zur Pflanze, wenn er will, zum Tier, zum Narr, zum Weisen, und kann in einer Stunde durchs ganze Weltall reisen. Der mit sich selbst in Frieden lebt, der wird genauso sterben, und ist selbst dann lebendiger, als alle seine Erben. Novalis, He becomes the plant if it wants, Or the animal, the fool, or wise man and can travel in an hour through the entire universe.

    He knows that he nothing knows, Like the others who doesn't know anything But knows what he and the others have to learn about. Who feels alien shores in himself, and who has courage to stretch himself, to be active he will discover himself, bit by nit and undisturbed of fear. He will look downward to the mountain tops?

    Who hears butterflies laughing, He knows, how clouds taste, He will discover night in the moonlight undisturbed of fear. He who live in peace with himself, He will also die in peace, And he will be more lively as all his offsprings. Translation by Novalis 'Novalis' is the name of a German art rock band from the seventies. Comment To a Skylark Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert- That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

    Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden light'ning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight- Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

    All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers- All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh-thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

    Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt- A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

    We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet, if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know; Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

    Horst W. Comment On the See It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from where it sometime fell.

    When last the winds of Heaven were unbound. Oh, ye! Februar in Rom. Nikolaus Lenau , - The leaves unhooked themselves from trees And started all abroad; The dust did scoop itself like hands And throw away the road. The wagons quickened on the streets, The thunder hurried slow; The lightning showed a yellow beak, And then a livid claw. The birds put up the bars to nests, The cattle fled to barns; There came one drop of giant rain, And then, as if the hands That held the dams had parted hold, The waters wrecked the sky, But overlooked my father's house, Just quartering a tree.

    Emily Dickinson — John, in Patmos' Isle, In the passion of his toil, When he saw the churches seven, Golden aisl'd, built up in heaven, Gaz'd at such a rugged wonder. As I stood its roofing under, Lo! I saw one sleeping there, On the marble cold and bare. While the surges wash'd his feet, And his garments white did beat Drench'd about the sombre rocks, On his neck his well-grown locks, Lifted dry above the main, Were upon the curl again.

    This was architectur'd thus By the great Oceanus! Many a mortal of these days, Dares to pass our sacred ways, Dares to touch audaciously This Cathedral of the Sea! I have been the pontiff-priest Where the waters never rest, Where a fledgy sea-bird choir Soars for ever; holy fire I have hid from mortal man; Proteus is my Sacristan. But the dulled eye of mortal Hath pass'd beyond the rocky portal; So for ever will I leave Such a taint, and soon unweave All the magic of the place. Bereits die Wikinger kannten die Insel. Bearbeitungsstand: 4. Juni , UTC. Abgerufen: Juli , UTC.

    Comment Requiescat Read lightly, she is near Under the snow, Speak gently, she can hear The daisies grow. All her bright golden hair Tarnished with rust, She that was young and fair Fallen to dust. Lily-like, white as snow, She hardly knew She was a woman, so Sweetly she grew. Coffin-board, heavy stone, Lie on her breast, I vex my heart alone, She is at rest. Peace, peace, she cannot hear Lyre or sonnet, All my life's buried here, Heap earth upon it. Oscar Wilde - Comment Requiescat by Oscar Wilde is a tragic elegy based upon the death of Wilde's younger sister Isola, who died at the age of Was immer das Leiden angeht und seinen Rang — die Alten Meister, da sahn sie durch!

    Wie die verstanden, es einzuordnen ins Alltagsleben. Noch auch das kostbare Kauffahrerschiff, sah da kein Aas denn Nicht irgend wie wo was Erstaunliches geschehn: Ein Junge! Es ist auf dem Weg nach irgend wo hin — und segelt gelassen davon. Wo bleibt die Ehrfurcht gegen mich?

    Es ist der Vater mit seinem Kind. Dem Vater grauset's, er gibt mehr Gas: "Halt' dich, mein Sohn, sonst passiert noch was! Der Sozius hinter ihm Guadalquivir, alta torre y viento en los naranjales. Dauro y Genil, torrecillas muertas sobre los estanques. Gart, gerade gestern war ich im Spanisch-Forum. Who went and never returned The river Guadalquivir Has beards of maroon The two rivers of Granada One a cry the other blood. Como un arco de viola el grito ha hecho vibrar largas cuerdas del viento. Las gentes de las cuevas asoman sus velones. Comment Words, Wide Night Somewhere on the other side of this wide night and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.

    The room is turning slowly away from the moon. This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear. La lala la. I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to cross to reach you Comment Ein Sommermorgen an der Adria This Unimportant Morning This unimportant morning Something goes singing where The capes turn over on their sides And the warm Adriatic rides Her blue and sun washing At the edge of the world and its brilliant cliffs.

    Day rings in the higher airs Pure with cicadas, and slowing Like a pulse to smoke from farms, Extinguished in the exhausted earth, Unclenching like a fist and going. Comment Acropolis The soft quem quam will be Scops the Owl conjugation of nouns, a line of enquiry, powdery stubble of the socratic prison laurels crack like parchments in the wind. Comment 'Where are we going, man? Wir haben Leiden. Doch kein Leid.

    Und Freiheit ohne frei zu sein. Von allem haben wir: Den Schein. Wir treten auf. Wir treten ab. Und spielen Rollen: Bis ans Grab. Comment The Garden En robe de parade. Samain Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia. And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth. In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive. Comment Ode To A Nightingale My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

    O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.

    I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

    Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

    Fled is that musicdo I wake or sleep? II O, einen Schluck des Weins! Heinrich Heine — Comment Delos For Diana Gould On charts they fall like lace, Islands consuming in a sea Born dense with its own blue: And like repairing mirrors holding up Small towns and trees and rivers To the still air, the lovely air: From the clear side of springing Time, In clement places where the windmills ride, Turning over grey springs in Mykonos, In shadows with a gesture of content. Wer das Original liest, merkt wohl, dass es einige mehrdeutige Stellen gibt In dieser Hinsicht ist Durrell keine Ausnahme.

    He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature. John Keats. Then he struggled with he heart; Innocence and peace depart. Then he struggled with the mind; His proud heart he left behind. Now his wars on God begin; At stroke of midnight God shall win. William Butler Yeats Comment On His Blindness WHEN I consider how my light is spent E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, least he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State Is Kingly.

    Thousands at his bidding speed And post o're Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite. John Milton. Dann rang er mit dem Herz und verlor seine Unschuld und seinen Frieden. Lucky, this point in time and space Is chosen as my working-place, Where the sexy airs of summer, The bathing hours and the bare arms, The leisured drives through a land of farms Are good to a newcomer. Equal with colleagues in a ring I sit on each calm evening Enchanted as the flowers The opening light draws out of hiding With all its gradual dove-like pleading, Its logic and its powers:.

    Comment On a Drop of Dew See how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born Round in its self incloses, And in its little globe's extent Frames as it can its native element. How it the purple flow'r does slight, Scarce touching where it lies, But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light; Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere.

    Restless it rolls and unsecure, Trembling lest it grow impure, Till the warm sun pity its pain, And to the skies exhale it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flow'r be seen, Rememb'ring still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green; And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater Heaven in an Heaven less. In how coy a figure wound Every way it turns away: So the world excluding round, Yet receiving in the day.

    Dark beneath, but bright above: Here disdaining, there in love. How loose and easy hence to go: How girt and ready to ascend. Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil; White and intire, though congealed and chill. Congealed on earth: but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of th' Almighty Sun. Andrew Marvell 31 March — 16 August Hier ist der Schatten ihrer Freude. Conrad Ferdinand Meyer — Gedicht aus dem Jahr , in dem er die fontana dei cavalli marini in der Villa Borghese beschreibt.

    Comment Summer Breeze. Comment " Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul? In her exhibition, Leimer weaves several performance-based sculptural and multimedia works into a narrative in which specific historical and political threads are brought together, owing and merging in a collective political and personal involvement sphere.

    Alter ist nicht nur ein biologischer Prozess, sondern immer auch eine kulturelle Konstruktion. These days, the aging process is seen as a deficiency in the public eye. The prevailing cult of youth endeavours to hide the traces of aging. Aside from negative stereotypes, however, age also indicates power, experience, wisdom, contemplation, lust for life, and triumph over societal conventions.

    Aging is not only a biological process but a cultural construction, which emerging sciences such as cultural gerontology have dedicated themselves to investigating. In the presented works, artists illustrate how age in all of its facets can be thoughtfully integrated into our lives. In addition to numerous works from the Belvedere collection, the exhibition presents high-profile loans from national and international museums. The publications accompanies the exhibition at Unteres Belvedere, Vienna. A gloriously colorful selection of previously unpublished photographs belonging to Dagmar Koller reveals moments and personas of a life lived with great intensity.

    The images capture memories and provide insights into her private life. This publication reveals a biography to us that while aimed at style and pleasure, elegance and desire, individuality and openness, nonetheless included both discipline and self-irony. Dagmar Koller has not only played the roles that life wrote, but also embodies a professional handling of the lighthearted, always full of respect for the high art of popular entertainment.

    These images are a sheer delight, and Dagmar Koller is always a veritable experience: laughing, chatting, singing, dancing, beaming out at us in beautiful dresses and in equally beautiful places. She is always there for her audience, always a star, whether on the stages of this world, or the arenas of politics and society. And almost incidentally this book, edited by Michael Balgavy, becomes a vivid, enjoyable, but at times also serious document of Austrian contemporary history.

    Die Bilder halten Erinnerungen fest und geben Einblicke in Privates. He reminds us of a life in and out of color which at times loses and regains itself at another place. Reminds us that for a life to be complete both beauty and fright are needed. Er zeigt ein Leben in und aus der Farbe, das sich bisweilen verliert und an anderem Ort von Neuem gewinnt. Sie profitieren voneinander. Deshalb sind die gedruckten Arbeiten auch so wichtig.

    Saks ist sowohl Bewahrer als auch Erneuerer traditionsreicher Druckverfahren. They mutually benefit from each other. Saks is both a bearer and a renovator of tradition who holds printmaking in high regards. Efficiency is translated into irony, functionalism into roguishness. The impressive monograph accompanied the exhibition at Kunsthaus Pasquart. Die eindrucksvolle monografische Publikation erschien begleitend zu ihrer Ausstellung im Kunsthaus Pasquart.

    Her compositions are inspired by a variety of visual sources, from newspaper photos, art historical images and dream pictures to circuit diagrams and advertising material. Isabella Kohlhubers transmediale Werke durchqueren die Sprache der Begriffe ebenso wie die Worte des Alltags, vor allem aber die narrative Welt der Zeichen und der Schrift. Alexandra Meyer besticht in ihren Arbeiten durch Humor und eine ungezwungene Leichtigkeit.

    Alexandra Meyer captivates the viewer with humor and a natural lightness. With a fine sensitivity and an often surprising perspective, she deals with major questions of human existence in the interaction between body, spirit, and psyche. She uses a wide variety of media such as video, performance, photography, installations, sculpture, and drawing. The publication — simple in aesthetic and with a style reduced to the essential — the artist suggests the universal and creates a striking symbolism — images that stay with us.

    Anna Artaker transposes the plants from his photograms into contemporary prints using nature printing, a technique developed in the midth century, and thereby addresses the ideal of self-imaging, which both nature printing and photography claim to fulfil. All phases of her painting share one thing in common: Dreux paints most radically, and does not allow herself to be deterred by trends for which there is a good market, in this way developing extraordinary images with a very life-affirming expressivity.

    Her topics are often derived from themes, such as nature, and in particular in recent years from prehistorical and folk art. Schrei mich nicht an, Krieger! In her installation Henke concentrates on this ambivalent capacity of the space of the Rotunda, thereby creating an awareness of the unique character of the location.

    Barba focusses on film: as a medium, material and metaphor, as a narrative form and characteristic foil for the visual culture of the 20th century. The elaborately designed publication documents the work the artist has created for the rotunda at Schirn Kunsthalle Frankfurt. It looks back over 25 years of collecting and 15 years of promoting young artists while simultaneously providing a starting point for discussions about the potential of promoting culture through interim use.

    After all, the availability of space is fundamental to the development of the artistic and creative scenes in Vienna. One major aim of the private cultural efforts of the Lenikus Group from the outset has been to put vacant spaces and buildings to use and create a vibrant centre for exchange and for artistic forms of production. Featuring academic essays, reports on specific projects and interviews the publication reflects on topics such as space for creative activity, artist in residence programmes and interim use. Articles and reports on exhibitions are interlaced with a selection of works from the Lenikus collection.

    While the presented works reveal the personal taste of Gabriele and Martin Lenikus they also shed light on tendencies in the Vienna art scene and, hence, enable these to be placed in their international context. Over the past ten years das weisse haus has staged exhibitions throughout Vienna featuring hundreds of national and international artists. It has likewise developed an artist-in-residence-program and established studios for local artists. The publication addresses aspects that have been of relevance over the years such as institutionalization, nomadism, and site-specific art, and questions a feminist way of working and the current status of the new media.

    Seit konnten 22 Ausstellungen umgesetzt werden, die nun erstmals umfassend dokumentiert werden. The artist Michael Kienzer repurposed the old fire station, turning it into an art space: Kunstraum Weikendorf. His persuasive concept, which by relying on a glass front visually connects the inside of the space with the outside, makes it possible to curate artistic interventions that change every six months. A total of 22 exibitions have been realized since , and they are now being presented for the first time. Which of them are still household names, and which have since passed into obscurity?

    Which continuous developments can be discerned? What innovative changes have been made? Which topics and artistic positions unsettled audiences, which captured their imagination or irritated them? Welche Namen kennen wir noch heute und welche sind in Vergessenheit geraten? Metaphorically, it is a story about departure, waiting and separation, dictated by migrations.

    In the early 20th century, it was usual yet traumatic for men to leave Croatian islands due to poverty. By using strong imagery, the artist delves into political, economic and social phenomena, occurring in Croatia and Europe since the early s.

    Text: Alaina Claire Feldman. Mediengruppe Bitnik have made a name for themselves in recent years with spectacular works. They bugged the Zurich Opera and programmed a shopping bot to randomly shop for goods on the darknet. It is published on the occasion of the Geneva Arts Society Prize, which!

    Mediengruppe Bitnik were awarded in The monography accompanies! Mediengruppe Bitnik ausgezeichnet wurde, und erscheint begleitend zur Einzelausstellung von! With their human figures seemingly brought to life by means of projection, Daniel Glaser and Magdalena Kunz have developed their own form of artistic expression — the cinematographic sculpture.

    These bizarre situations, something between reality and appearance, cast their spell over us because they question our mechanisms of perception. Out now the first comprehensive monograph. Die bizarren Situationen zwischen Sein und Schein ziehen in Bann, weil sie unsere Wahrnehmungsmechanismen infrage stellen. Erschienen ist nun die erste umfassende Monografie. These are images that are emotional and moving, that accuse and reconcile, that keep asking the same question: what makes us human? Ausgangspunkt ist das traditionelle japanische Teehaus, ein Ort spiritueller Erfahrung.

    The featured works of art, architecture, design and photography are part of an art-historical continuum. The creators of the works on show perform skilled translations: in dialogue with craft and design traditions, they update the central motifs and themes of tea culture using modern materials and innovative forms. The publication invites to explore the world of Japanese aesthetics. Sen no Rikyu teahouses should be markedly simple and made by the use of materials that are vulnerable both to wear and weathering.

    The publication accompanied the exhibition in cooperation with Museum Morsbroich at 21er Haus, Vienna. Large-scale images are presented on the curtain for the duration of one opera season and constitute a symbolic interface between performative and visual art. The project provides a special perspective onto the art history of the last twenty years and is unique in its exceptional quality, the long duration of each presentation and its extraordinary dimension.

    Beyond the actual curtain images that have originated over the years the book offers further related works of the participating artists in several different media forms. Usually very simple produced using basic commodities such as sponges, ashtrays, tea towels, garbage bins and outdoor lights, her works do have a connection with everyday life but they transform it in a surreal way. The catalog accompanies her first major solo show at Kunstmuseum Solothurn.

    He questions the nature of the human eye and inserts stumbling stones in our path using concrete. Her literary opus was published consecutively by renowned houses. Until today, her visual work was not published in any book comprehensively. The publication documents her visual work from the s to the present and communicates it to a large public. Ihre literarischen Werke wurden von renommierten Verlagen herausgegeben.

    Mit einem Werkverzeichnis der Jahre — Differenziert und mit kritischem Blick hinterfragt er das, was ihn betrifft und betroffen macht und analysiert gesellschaftsrelevante Fragen der Zeit. Fantasie ist gefragt, wenn wir uns auf die Kunst Zahornickys einlassen. In the second section of the book these staged images are contrasted with 28 real photos of this kind of celestial phenomenon. The images used as the starting point — all of them Messier objects astronomical objects cataloged by the French astronomer Messier — are gradually deconstructed. As an explorer of the world and the archaeology of the everyday, with his mercurial and cryptic wit Robert Zahornicky tends to find the themes for his work simply in passing.

    He employs them to handle the question of truth and reality in art in general and in photography in particular. He challenges things that concern him or appear to him to be cause for concern, and analyses socially relevant questions of our times. An expansive floor painting created especially for Museum gegenstandsfreier Kunst and filling the entire exhibition space there, as well as sculptures shown in the museum grounds and in public space in Otterndorf. A road trip documented in a book: the car journey with a painting in the trailer, 12 exhibitions along the way, and everything else that made up the voyage with this piece of art.

    The many stations and the encounters — both provoked and incidental — on this journey merge like stills to form a filmic document; they speculate about their potential as statistic fragments. He relies not only on functional and designer elements, but also on rough roofing battens and anodized metal profiles, on new and used products. The range also includes things bought for a specific purpose or borrowed at some point, the decidedly material and the dematerialized. And while we cannot hope for these to be ones to which answers can be found, their detailed inspection promises indirect benefits in the realm of knowledge optimization.

    Karl Karner creates bronze and aluminum sculptures of a mystic and dreary beauty. The Austrian artist places great importance not only on sculptures, but also on extensively installed pieces of work and performances. In his work he discusses the concepts of bodily perception and of corporeality itself. These are not only related to the human body, but can be understood as a wide examination of object, materiality and space.

    With pieces from renowned contributors such as Siri Hustvedt, Andrew Solomon or Bessel van der Kolk the book creates an exciting dialog on how psychoses get addressed within families. Her videos show seemingly unspectacular events. Through the accompanying soundtracks and theatrical structure, the artist skilfully manages to foster doubts regarding the reality depicted. Caught in the artificiality of the images, the protagonists finally allow us to experience our role somewhere in between accomplice and voyeur.

    Again in her latest work, the artist Veronika Eberhart translates theoretical reflections on socio-political changes, feminist issues and economic constraints into a complex arrangement composed of performance, video, sound and installation. Jahrhundert wurde. Seine musikalisch-skulpturalen Arbeiten haben oft einen konkreten historischen Bezug und setzen sich mit Orten des Konflikts auseinander. Hinter seinen Projekten steht ein hoher Aufwand an Recherche und Feldforschung. The sleeves for vinyl records, the essential popular music medium, have always been more than just a dust protector and bearer of information.

    The designs for many album liners have come from significant photographers, artists and designers; they have spawned fruitful connections between music and the visual arts. Samson Young designs not only music but also installations, performances, drawings, walks, and films. His musical and sculptural works often include very concrete historical references and deal with places of conflict. Each of his project entails a large amount of investigation and field research. Sound and music are used as a vehicle for the reappraisal and representation of historical events, but are also the core of an independent aesthetic experience that requires no further explanations.

    Painter, illustrator, musician, poet, not to mention artistic smoker, performance and action artist, film maker — Giorgio Hupfer was not one to be pigeonholed. His cosmos was based on imagined, family, as well as real geographic coordinates: he is remembered as someone who moved between different worlds. Die Publikation zeigt einen Querschnitt durch sein bildnerisches Schaffen.

    Therefore, the paintings and sculptures actually constitute knowledge, solidified into a form by way of different techniques, and derived from philosophical thought in the fields of logic, ethics and metaphysics. He transposes the color and structure of the earth into images not only metaphorically, as the earth is quite literally hurled at the canvas and then fastened to it. It consists of two catalogs in a metal box. Algorithms and graphic patterns thematically define his images. The inaccuracies that are recognizable here are deliberate and are subtle comments on the manipulability of figures and digital communication.

    Is there a way out of the attempt to reflect reality in nothing but naked figures? Algorithmen und grafische Muster bestimmen seine Bilder. Die darin erkennbaren Ungenauigkeiten sind gewollt und subtile Kommentare zur Manipulierbarkeit von Zahlen und digitaler Kommunikation. Gibt es einen Ausweg aus dem Bestreben die Wirklichkeit in nichts als nacktem Zahlenwerk zu spiegeln? He reworks and modifies them unstintingly. Das in den letzten 50 Jahren entstandene umfangreiche Gesamtwerk umfasst Zeichnungen, Aquarelle sowie Acryl-, Tempera- und Holzarbeiten.

    The art he has created over the last 50 years embraces drawings, water colors but also acrylic, tempera and works on wood. For this overwhelmingly beautiful and expressive under water staging, Marko Zink traveled to Greece each summer from to Lifeless clothes and everyday consumer goods float through the sea at different times of the day and are brought to life by Zink.