Mosaic Fragment from Zeugma

Mosaics have always fascinated me as an art form. They are made from thousands of tiny fragments, each broken yet purposeful, carefully arranged to create an image greater than the sum of its parts. In their entirety, mosaics tell stories, evoke emotions, and capture beauty with remarkable complexity. But when a mosaic is incomplete, as with this fragment from Zeugma, the viewer is left with only a partial picture—enough to suggest the whole, but never enough to fully reveal it.

This particular fragment strikes me because of its haunting incompleteness. The face, while broken and surrounded by gaps, still conveys something deeply human—curiosity, vulnerability, perhaps even wisdom. The artist’s intention remains visible, yet the work itself is fragmented, inviting us to imagine the rest. What was this figure’s full expression? What story surrounded them? We can only speculate. And in that speculation, we are reminded of how we perceive others: incompletely, through fragments of their actions, words, and the roles they play in our lives.

Much like this mosaic, our understanding of people is always partial. Each interaction we have with someone offers us only a sliver of who they are—a single tile in the broader image of their character. Sometimes, these fragments are vivid and striking: moments of kindness, strength, or even conflict. Other times, they are muted, subtle, or incomplete, leaving us to fill in the gaps with our own assumptions and biases. Rarely, if ever, do we see the whole mosaic of another person, with all their nuances and contradictions.

Reflecting on this incomplete mosaic reminds me of how easily we mistake the part for the whole. A single fragment of someone’s life—a moment of disagreement, a harsh word, or a decisive action—can dominate our perception of them. We forget that these moments are just pieces of a larger, more complex mosaic. The same is true of how others perceive us. Traits that may stand out—stubbornness, confidence, or assertiveness—can overshadow the quieter, softer tones of our character, leading others to see an image that feels sharp or unbalanced.

Yet there is beauty in this incompleteness. Just as this mosaic fragment from Zeugma invites us to imagine the whole, so too does our partial understanding of others challenge us to approach them with curiosity and humility. Rather than fixating on the sharp edges of a single fragment, we can strive to see the broader context, to appreciate the fragments for what they reveal and what they leave unsaid.

Ultimately, mosaics teach us a valuable lesson about human connection: no one is ever fully seen, just as no mosaic fragment tells the entire story. Our lives and relationships are built on incomplete perceptions, and it is our responsibility to approach these fragments with care, to honor the complexity of the whole, even when we cannot see it.

Death and the Gravedigger (1895)

Carlos Schwabe’s Death and the Gravedigger (1895) captures a haunting vision of mortality through Symbolist art, blending mystical elements with an eerie, dreamlike atmosphere. Schwabe, known for his ethereal and often somber subjects, presents Death as a solemn, shrouded figure visiting a weary gravedigger, standing as an imposing, spectral presence that commands both reverence and fear. This work draws the viewer into a reflective meditation on death’s inevitability, positioning it as both a universal truth and a quiet, almost compassionate force within the natural order.

In Death and the Gravedigger, Schwabe employs a limited, muted color palette dominated by cool grays and deep shadows, creating a melancholic tone that enhances the painting’s otherworldly quality. Death, draped in dark robes, stands upright with an ethereal glow, almost as if emitting a faint light from within. This soft luminosity contrasts with the muted, earthbound gravedigger, emphasizing the divide between the realms of the living and the dead. The figure of Death is presented with dignity rather than horror, with its peaceful stance suggesting a gentle inevitability rather than a violent or sinister force.

The composition itself guides the viewer’s eye from the gravedigger, hunched and weary in his labor, upward toward the towering figure of Death, creating a natural path that mirrors life’s journey toward its end. Schwabe’s meticulous attention to symbolic detail, such as the skeletal features subtly hinted at under Death’s hood, invites contemplation on the mystery and beauty intertwined with mortality. The background, shrouded in mist and shadows, offers no discernible landscape, which lends the scene an isolated, timeless quality. This lack of context or clear setting reinforces the work’s universality, positioning the encounter as a metaphor for humanity’s shared fate.

This painting reflects Schwabe’s interest in the mystical and the symbolic, typical of the Symbolist movement, which often explored the unseen forces influencing human experience. Death and the Gravedigger encourages viewers to view death not as an end, but as a transition, an encounter that is inevitable yet strangely compassionate. The solemn expression of the gravedigger, combined with the calm presence of Death, implies an acceptance of life’s cyclical nature, resonating with the Symbolist idea that death is not merely a cessation but a return to a greater, cosmic order.

In Death and the Gravedigger, Schwabe creates a poignant, introspective piece that prompts viewers to confront mortality in a way that feels both somber and comforting. This painting transforms the figure of Death into a symbol of peace and inevitability, challenging our fears and inviting us to consider the natural beauty in life’s final transition. As part of this exploration into darker themes, Death and the Gravedigger reminds us that the macabre can also carry a sense of serenity, reflecting on death not with terror, but with quiet reverence.

The Accuser

The Accuser

By Dave 

God speaks in storms,

His voice a thunderclap

that splits the mast,

His breath the gale

that tears the sails to ribbons.

“You are Jonah,”

He declares,

“the cursed one,

the drag upon this ship.”

But sailors know the sea,

its capricious moods,

its love for the cruel theater of blame.

When the wind howls and the hull groans,

it is not the stars we look to

but each other,

searching for the Jonah among us,

the one whose presence stirs the wrath of the deep.

We’ve cast lots before,

watched men thrown to the waves,

their screams lost to the crash of surf.

The superstition clings like salt on skin,

a bitter taste in every breath.

But who decides the Jonah?

Who names the anchor

dragging the ship to ruin?

It is not the sea—

it is fear.

And this God,

this storm-caller,

wears the guise of the wind.

His accusations lash like ropes,

binding wrists,

dragging me to the deck.

The crew looks at me with hollow eyes,

desperate for calm,

for the storm’s roar to cease.

And He, the great deceiver,

stirs their terror like the tides,

makes them see me as the curse.

But I am no Jonah.

I am no deadweight,

no shadow on the prow.

I am the sailor who knows the rigging,

the one who hauls the lines,

who stands firm at the helm

when others falter.

Let Him send His squalls,

His waves that break like leviathans

against my ship.

I will not go quietly

into the hungry maw of the sea.

I will not be thrown

to soothe their fears,

to please a God who thrives on chaos.

This God—

this storm—

is no captain,

no guiding light.

He is the mutiny in the night,

the whisper that pits sailor against sailor,

the unseen hand that frays the ropes.

He does not command the sea;

He poisons it.

The rigging moans,

the timbers creak,

but I hold the wheel.

I keep my eyes on the horizon,

where the stars still shine

beyond His wrath.

If He is the storm,

then I am the mariner,

a sailor who knows the tides,

the roll of the deck beneath my feet,

the way a ship can groan but still endure.

I will not bow to His thunder,

nor sink beneath His waves.

I will chart my course

through this tempest,

past His accusations,

beyond His grasp.

I will not be His Jonah,

not the scapegoat of this vessel,

nor the offering to His rage.

Let Him howl,

let the waves rise like mountains.

I will sail on,

a lone ship defying the storm,

carving a path

through waters even He cannot command.

Silk Roses

Silk Roses

By Dave 

These roses bloom but never grow,

their velvet petals soft, unbroken,

a perfect stillness—

crafted to last forever,

but never to change.

No rain has kissed them.

No sun has warmed their stems.

They hold no fragrance, no bees hum their secrets.

And yet, I cannot look away.

Their beauty whispers: stay,

but never asks for more.

I placed them in a crystal vase,

their colors frozen in time.

They drink no water, yet they endure.

I wonder—

what is the cost of living this way?

Roots buried in air,

thorns that cannot pierce,

love that cannot ache.

What truth hides in this unyielding bloom,

in leaves that do not bend to the wind

or shatter with the weight of chill?

They do not fade.

But neither do they grow.

They do not ask to be touched,

to feel the soft edge of a trembling hand.

They stand immaculate,

while something real waits elsewhere,

fragile and unadorned,

aching to be held.

I ache, too—

for roses that bleed into the earth,

for blooms that fold under the weight of time,

for the wildness of petals undone by wind.

But here, in the allure of silk,

there is only the illusion of life.

Seated Woman with a Parasol (study for La Grande Jatte) (1884-1885)

In Seated Woman with a Parasol, Georges Seurat offers us not just a study for La Grande Jatte but a profound meditation on the creative process itself. This piece, rendered in black conté crayon, conveys a remarkable sense of atmosphere and form with the barest of means. As a preparatory work, it sets the stage for the vivid, intricate final masterpiece, yet it stands firmly on its own, a testament to the power of simplicity and focus.

The creative process is often shrouded in mystery, but this work pulls back the curtain, inviting us into Seurat's mind. It is a glimpse into his experimentations with light and shadow, form and texture, and a rare chance to witness the scaffolding upon which a grand vision is built. To see such a study is to stand in the artist's workshop, observing the moment of discovery before the idea is fully realized.

For me, this conversation between study and final creation resonates deeply with the writing process. I love writing, though I often feel I lack any real talent for it. Like Seurat with his crayon, I grapple with words, sketching ideas, and reshaping them in pursuit of something coherent, meaningful, or beautiful. Writing a draft feels akin to Seurat’s study—it’s unfinished, imperfect, and raw. And yet, it holds its own kind of truth and beauty, just as this drawing does. It reminds me that every final product is rooted in these messy, uncertain beginnings.

There is something deeply personal about encountering a study like this. It feels intimate, as though you’ve stumbled upon the artist’s diary or sketchbook. It shows not only the product of creation but the process—the moments of hesitation and determination, of testing and refining. These are the moments we rarely celebrate but are foundational to anything that lasts.

What strikes me most about this particular study is how much it conveys with so little. The figure dissolves into the background, her presence more suggestion than certainty. And yet, the weight of her silhouette and the quiet poise of her posture speak volumes. This economy of means feels like a reminder to embrace simplicity, to find depth in the fundamentals. For Seurat, the study becomes a bridge to the masterpiece; for me, it is a reminder that the small steps matter as much as the grand gestures.

In life, too, we are often caught in the space between sketches and completed works. We live in the drafts, the studies, the in-betweens. And while it is easy to feel unexceptional, to see oneself as average, this piece reminds me that there is beauty in the unfinished. The act of creation—whether in art, writing, or simply living—is not about perfection but about process.

Seurat’s Seated Woman with a Parasol shows us that even a study can hold its own power, its own meaning. It is not merely a step toward something greater but a statement in itself. In this, I find comfort: perhaps my drafts, my reflections, and even my perceived averageness are not shortcomings but moments of discovery, pieces of a larger whole.

Danaus Plexippus or Monarch Butterfly

From the ancient silhouettes of bison painted on cave walls to the delicate pinning of a monarch butterfly in a museum, humanity has long sought to honor and preserve the beauty of nature. These acts, though separated by millennia, share a common thread: a deep admiration for the natural world and a desire to understand our place within it. In the vibrant wings of a butterfly, we see not only nature’s beauty but also its complexity—a poignant reminder of the diversity and ingenuity of life’s evolution.

The Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, home to countless specimens like the monarch butterfly, is a testament to this enduring human impulse. Within its walls, insects, plants, and animals are meticulously preserved, serving not only as scientific records but also as works of art. Insect pinning, as exemplified in the monarch, is often viewed through a scientific lens, but it is also an artistic practice. The process of spreading the monarch’s fragile wings to capture its intricate beauty mirrors the care of a painter’s brushstroke or the precision of a sculptor’s chisel. The monarch’s vibrant orange and black patterns, adorned with delicate white dots, evoke a sense of symmetry and purpose, shaped by millions of years of evolution and adaptation. Through the act of pinning, we seek to preserve this fleeting beauty—not as a trophy, but as a testament to the extraordinary diversity of life.

Yet, this practice is not without its ethical complexities. Modern sensibilities raise questions about the balance between preservation and harm. To pin an insect is to transform a living being into a static artifact, a moment of life frozen in time. For some, this act can feel at odds with the reverence it is meant to convey. It is crucial to approach such preservation with care, ensuring that it is done responsibly, ethically, and with the understanding that what we pin is not just a specimen but a piece of the delicate web of life.

This tension between admiration and exploitation reflects a broader evolution in humanity’s relationship with nature. Early humans painted animals on cave walls to honor the creatures they depended on for survival. Today, we pin insects and preserve ecosystems not only to understand them but also to protect them from the threats we have introduced—habitat loss, climate change, and pollution. The pinned monarch butterfly becomes a symbol of this fragile relationship, reminding us of what is at stake and urging us to take action.

Nature, in all its forms, has always been our greatest teacher and muse. The monarch’s migration, its transformation from caterpillar to butterfly, and its ephemeral beauty have inspired art, poetry, and science for centuries. But nature is not just a subject—it is a dynamic system shaped by the forces of evolution. The intricate patterns on a butterfly’s wings are the result of adaptation to its environment, a strategy for survival encoded through generations. The changing seasons, the rhythm of tides, and the endless variety of life forms are all testaments to the complexity of evolutionary processes. As humans, our role is not merely to admire but to protect this art so that it can continue to inspire future generations.

To observe a pinned monarch at the Smithsonian is to witness a moment of connection between art, science, and life. It is a call to reflect on the delicate balance between humanity and the natural world, to marvel at the ingenuity of evolution, and to recognize the responsibility we bear as both observers and stewards. From the ochre-painted caves of Lascaux to the carefully curated collections of the Smithsonian, our art has always been rooted in the natural world. The pinned butterfly reminds us of this timeless connection—a bridge between the ephemeral and the eternal, between creation and preservation.

In honoring the monarch, we honor the diversity of life itself. And in preserving its fragile beauty, we preserve not just a moment in time but a part of ourselves—the part that sees the world not only for what it is but for the inspiration it provides.

The Execution of Lady Jane Grey (1833)

Paul Delaroche’s The Execution of Lady Jane Grey is a masterwork that encapsulates a moment of profound vulnerability and tragedy. The painting, created in 1833, portrays Lady Jane Grey, the young and ill-fated "Nine Days’ Queen," blindfolded and reaching for the executioner’s block. This singular depiction captures the innocence and sacrifice of its subject, a young woman thrust into political turmoil beyond her control. However, the painting itself shares a similarly fraught history, as it was presumed lost after a devastating flood in the 1920s, only to be rediscovered in the 1970s. The narrative of the painting’s near destruction and eventual restoration parallels the themes of fragility and redemption within the work, underscoring the precarious nature of both human life and cultural memory.

The brevity of Lady Jane Grey’s life underscores the fragility of existence, a theme central to Delaroche’s composition. Her nine-day reign, orchestrated by political forces seeking to wield power through her, ended in betrayal and execution, rendering her a symbol of the human cost of ambition and the ruthlessness of political intrigue. Delaroche’s painting captures this fragility with remarkable precision. At its center, Lady Jane kneels in a luminous white gown that stands in stark contrast to the shadowy, oppressive surroundings. Her blindfolded face and outstretched hand reflect both vulnerability and resignation, while the rough wooden block she reaches for underscores the stark finality of her fate. The juxtaposition of her ethereal presence with the somber tones of the surrounding figures creates a visual and emotional tension that emphasizes the precariousness of her position.

The painting’s own history mirrors this fragility. Following the flood that engulfed the National Gallery’s archives in the 1920s, The Execution of Lady Jane Grey was presumed destroyed, its delicate canvas thought to have succumbed to the elements. For decades, it was believed lost, its absence a sobering reminder of the impermanence of even the most treasured cultural artifacts. However, its rediscovery in the 1970s—damaged but intact—was an extraordinary moment of redemption. Found rolled up and forgotten in storage, the painting was carefully restored, allowing it to reclaim its place as one of the most celebrated works of Romantic historical art. This process of restoration not only salvaged a masterpiece but also reaffirmed the significance of its themes, as the painting itself became a symbol of resilience in the face of near obliteration.

The rediscovery of The Execution of Lady Jane Grey invites reflection on the role of art in preserving and perpetuating memory. Just as Lady Jane’s story might have faded into obscurity without the chronicling efforts of artists and historians, the painting’s survival underscores the importance of safeguarding cultural heritage. Delaroche’s work, which so poignantly captures the fragility of life, nearly succumbed to the same forces of time and neglect it so eloquently portrays. Its eventual restoration was not merely an act of conservation but a reclamation of its narrative power, allowing the painting to continue to evoke empathy and contemplation.

The parallel narratives of Lady Jane Grey’s tragic life and the painting’s near destruction highlight the precariousness of memory. Both the individual and the artwork were threatened by forces beyond their control, yet both have endured, their stories preserved through acts of historical and cultural preservation. Lady Jane’s life, though cut short, became emblematic of innocence and sacrifice, while Delaroche’s painting, once believed lost, found renewed relevance through its rediscovery. Together, they underscore the fragile nature of legacies, both personal and artistic, and the collective responsibility to preserve them.

This interplay between fragility and resilience imbues the painting with profound cultural and emotional significance. Delaroche’s portrayal of Lady Jane Grey’s final moments is not merely a depiction of historical events but a meditation on the themes of mortality, sacrifice, and the enduring power of art to connect past and present. The luminous figure of Lady Jane, her vulnerability illuminated against the darkness, becomes a timeless symbol of dignity in the face of inevitable loss. Similarly, the painting’s restoration demonstrates the enduring relevance of art as a vessel for memory, capable of transcending the boundaries of time and circumstance.

The near-loss and rediscovery of The Execution of Lady Jane Grey ultimately serve as a poignant reminder of the importance of cultural preservation. Just as Lady Jane’s story has been immortalized through Delaroche’s work, the painting itself has been safeguarded for future generations, ensuring its ability to provoke reflection and empathy endures. The survival of this masterpiece affirms the resilience of both art and history, demonstrating that even what seems irrevocably lost can be recovered, renewed, and imbued with greater significance. Through its survival, Delaroche’s The Execution of Lady Jane Grey continues to resonate as a testament to the fragility of human life and the enduring power of redemption.

The Shepherd of the Gods

The Shepherd of the Gods

By Dave 

The gods of marble gaze with hollowed eyes,

As banners fall beneath the ashen skies.

Jove's thunder quiets, stilled upon his throne,

While shepherd’s hymns resound in streets of stone.

Where once Mars' legions marched to conquer all,

A Fisherman now answers Caesar’s call.

The cross ascends, triumphant in its reign,

Yet bears the weight of Rome’s imperial chain.

Venus sighs as her altars crumble low,

Her torches quenched by heaven’s steady glow.

Yet robes of purple clothe the shepherd’s priests,

And gilded chalice replace the simple feasts.

O Shepherd King, who vanquished Rome’s proud might,

Your flock now gathers in its marble light.

In conquering, You wore the laurel’s hue,

And Rome’s old gods now breathe their life in You.

For what is Rome, if not its endless need

To shape the world, to plant a mighty seed?

The meek inherit, yet inherit thrones,

And faith, once humble, rules in regal tones.

See Peter’s dome where Jove’s great temple stood,

The god of war replaced by brotherhood.

Yet Pax Romana whispers from the cross,

A fragile peace born of both gain and loss.

So here they meet: the shepherd and the crown,

The humble faith, the empire’s renown.

For all who rise to cast the old away

Must wear its shape, and in its shadow stay.

Thus David’s stone has felled the giant’s form,

Yet wears its armor in the coming storm.

The gods of Rome have bowed before the Lamb,

Yet Rome endures, reborn in who I AM.

Adam (1881)

When I stood before Rodin’s Adam at the Art Institute of Chicago, I felt as though I was confronting something far greater than a sculpture. I’ve seen Rodin’s The Thinker and other celebrated works, but this piece struck me differently. Its power lies in its intentional conversation with Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam and the universality it evokes. In this Adam, I didn’t see just the first man—I saw every man, every person grappling with the tension between divinity and rejection, labor and longing, creation and fall.

Rodin’s Adam directly echoes Michelangelo’s masterpiece through the pose of his hand. Yet here, the gesture is inverted. Where Michelangelo’s God reaches out with vitality and hope, Rodin’s Adam points downward, his hand heavy and lifeless. It is not the gesture of a man yearning for divine connection but of one who no longer believes he can reach it. This struck me profoundly—the arrogance of Michelangelo’s Adam, who refused to reach back to God, has dissolved into the resignation of Rodin’s Adam. Twisted and broken, this Adam knows God’s wrath. He is not the youthful, idyllic Adam of Eden, but a man aged by toil, estranged from the divine, and burdened by the consequences of his fall.

Rodin’s choice to depict Adam as an older man resonated with me deeply. His muscular yet weary body tells the story of life after the fall. This is not the Adam of creation but the Adam of exile. He is middle-aged, bent by the weight of a lifetime of labor and struggle. I saw in him a man who has worked the earth, wrestled with family, and carried the profound exhaustion of living. I felt that exhaustion too. In his downturned gaze and heavy hand, I saw the universal human experience of striving for connection while bearing the burden of rejection.

What makes Rodin’s Adam so powerful is its ability to place the viewer within that universal narrative. Standing before the sculpture, I felt like Adam—not just a man broken by rejection, but a man still striving, even if only in spirit. The downward-pointing hand, as much as it symbolizes resignation, also points to the earth, reminding us of humanity’s connection to the soil from which we were formed. It acknowledges our labor and our fallenness, but it also suggests renewal. For Adam’s hand, though heavy, is still strong; his body, though twisted, is still powerful. There is hope even in his toil.

Rodin’s Adam exists not in isolation but as part of a larger artistic and literary conversation. In Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, we see the spark of divine potential, the perfect moment of creation. Rodin’s Adam, by contrast, embodies the aftermath: the fractured connection between humanity and the divine. Similarly, in John Milton’s Paradise Lost, Adam wrestles with the weight of his choices and the consequences of his fall. Rodin’s Adam externalizes this struggle, capturing the emotional and physical toll of existence after Eden.

Even in works like Edvard Munch’s The Scream, we find echoes of Rodin’s Adam. Where Munch’s figure cries out in existential despair, Rodin’s Adam internalizes that anguish. Both works confront the alienation and striving that define the human condition, making their figures deeply relatable. This universality is what makes Rodin’s Adam so timeless. It transcends its Biblical origin to speak to anyone who has ever felt the tension between who they are and who they might have been.

In this way, Adam is not just a figure of rejection and toil but a conduit for understanding our shared humanity. His fall is our fall, his labor our labor. Rodin’s sculpture reminded me that even in our brokenness, there is divinity; even in our toil, there is purpose. Adam’s story is not one of despair but of resilience. He is a man who, though cast out, continues to strive, and through his striving, connects us all to the universal story of what it means to be human.

Empire of Light (1954)

René Magritte’s Empire of Light (1954) occupies a singular place in the canon of surrealist art, both as part of his celebrated cycle and as a work of enduring cultural influence. This painting, like others in the series, presents a striking juxtaposition: a sunlit daytime sky suspended above a shadowed nighttime street, anchored by a solitary house and the glow of a streetlamp. In this version, the inclusion of a pond reflecting the lamp's light deepens the interplay between light and darkness, reality and mystery. For me, this painting holds a personal resonance, not only because of its conceptual depth but also through its connection to The Exorcist (1973), a film whose iconic imagery I explored firsthand during a walking ghost tour in Georgetown. Visiting the infamous house featured in the movie, and walking the famous stairs after dark, I found myself within the layered worlds of Magritte’s painting and Friedkin’s film, experiencing firsthand the uncanny mingling of art, cinema, and reality.

Magritte’s Empire of Light series remains one of the most profound explorations of surrealism’s central ethos: the disruption of ordinary perception. Across the cycle, Magritte invites viewers to contemplate the coalescence of opposites, presenting a vision that is both impossible and eerily familiar. The serene daytime sky and shadowy street below coexist harmoniously, challenging our understanding of time, space, and natural order. The cycle’s philosophical underpinnings lie in its treatment of duality. By placing day and night within a single frame, Magritte creates a visual metaphor for the human experience, where light and shadow, knowledge and mystery, perpetually intermingle. These paintings seem to suggest that reality itself is layered, with what is seen often obscuring deeper truths. The Empire of Light thus transcends its immediate visual impact, becoming a meditation on the coexistence of opposites—a theme as timeless as it is personal.

Among the works in the Empire of Light cycle, the 1954 painting stands out for its compositional depth and narrative potential. The reflection of the streetlamp in the pond adds an additional layer of symmetry, emphasizing the tenuous connection between the natural world and human-made interventions. The single illuminated window within the house suggests life hidden within the shadows, offering a glimpse of humanity amid the stillness. These elements make this painting feel less abstract and more intimate, inviting viewers to imagine stories unfolding behind the closed shutters and lit panes. This version of the cycle also underscores Magritte’s technical mastery. The crisp delineation of the tree’s silhouette against the sky and the subtle gradations of shadow create an almost photographic realism. Yet this meticulous rendering only heightens the surreal tension; the more convincing the scene, the more unsettling its impossibility becomes.

The enduring power of Magritte’s Empire of Light can be seen not only in the art world but also in its influence on popular culture. Most notably, the painting served as inspiration for one of cinema’s most iconic moments: the arrival of Father Merrin in The Exorcist. Director William Friedkin acknowledged the connection, crafting the scene with a similar interplay of light and shadow. The single streetlamp casting its glow onto the darkened facade of the MacNeil house echoes the atmospheric tension of Magritte’s work, while Merrin’s solitary figure amplifies the painting’s themes of isolation and mystery. This cinematic adaptation transforms Magritte’s quiet surrealism into psychological suspense, yet the philosophical essence remains intact. Both the painting and the film explore the boundaries between light and darkness, good and evil, and the known and unknown. Through The Exorcist, Empire of Light entered the collective imagination, its haunting visual language reshaped to evoke terror and spiritual confrontation.

Visiting the house featured in The Exorcist during a walking ghost tour of Georgetown was a surreal experience in itself, but the resonance deepened when I saw it in lighting reminiscent of Magritte’s painting. The house’s facade was cast in shadow, with only the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp illuminating the scene. The uncanny tranquility of the moment mirrored the emotional tension of Empire of Light, blurring the line between art and reality. Later, as I walked the famous stairs next to the house in near darkness, I felt the weight of the painting’s themes in a profoundly personal way. The juxtaposition of the ordinary—a staircase, a streetlamp—with the eerie stillness of night recalled the strange harmony of Magritte’s work. This experience brought me closer to the painting’s core message: that light and shadow, day and night, are not opposites but complements, forever entwined in a delicate balance.

Cat and Kitten (1929)

Paul Nash’s Cat and Kitten captures a quiet, tender moment of domestic life, blending technical mastery with emotional subtlety. This small yet striking wood engraving showcases Nash’s versatility as an artist, revealing his ability to elevate the mundane into something timeless. The piece invites viewers to linger over its careful details: the intertwined curves of the cats, the rhythmic patterns of their fur, and the dynamic tension of the abstract background. It is a work that rewards close observation, offering both the warmth of domestic intimacy and the precision of a craftsman deeply engaged with his medium.

Paul Nash is perhaps best known for his evocative war landscapes and surrealist paintings, but his wood engravings provide a different window into his artistic vision. Cat and Kitten reveals a more intimate side of Nash, one that celebrates small, everyday moments while still reflecting his modernist sensibilities. Wood engraving, as a medium, demands meticulous technique, as the artist must carve in reverse, working with the grain of the wood to create textures and contrasts. In this piece, Nash employs the medium with remarkable skill, using fine lines and stark contrasts to bring out the softness of the cats’ fur and the tension between their stillness and the energy of the abstract lines surrounding them. The engraving’s texture and depth invite the viewer to imagine not just the visual scene but also the tactile warmth of the curled animals—a moment of quiet captured with great care.

The abstract background is especially intriguing. Unlike the naturalism of the cats, the background is composed of sharp, intersecting lines, almost suggesting movement or sound. This dynamic contrast heightens the stillness of the animals, as though the world continues its chaotic pace around their moment of repose. This juxtaposition feels deliberate, echoing Nash’s broader interest in the tension between order and disruption, a theme that runs throughout his work. It also reminds me, on a personal level, of how my own cats can find peace in the middle of life’s chaos, curling into their own serene worlds despite the noise and movement around them.

As a lover of cats, this piece speaks to me on a deeply personal level. I share my home with three, and their quiet companionship is a constant source of comfort and joy. Each curve and contour of Nash’s engraving captures a universal truth about cats: their uncanny ability to find warmth and connection in even the smallest spaces. Whether sprawled across a sunlit patch of carpet or nestled together on a chilly evening, my cats embody the same intimacy and tranquility that Nash has immortalized in Cat and Kitten. The piece feels like a celebration of these quiet, everyday interactions—a reminder of the beauty found in moments that often go unnoticed.

Rose #7

 

Apples!

Dear journal,

 
When I first started collecting alabaster apples, I thought it was simply about the beauty of the pieces—the way the light dances on their polished surfaces and the quiet elegance they bring to my desk. But yesterday, when the golden apple arrived, it became something more than just a beautiful object. It unexpectedly triggered a flood of memories, especially of being nominated for the Golden Apple—Joplin Area Chamber of Commerce's Teacher of the Year award—three times and becoming a finalist once. I remember how much I wanted to win, not just for the recognition but for the sense of validation it would bring. For years, that desire felt like a quiet but constant weight.

Seeing this golden apple sitting here, though, I realize how much I’ve grown since then. There was a time when not winning felt like a deeply personal rejection, much like the sting of applying for administrative positions and being passed over. It felt as though I wasn’t good enough, as though my worth was tied to how others assessed my abilities. I can see now how misguided that perspective was. Awards and promotions aren’t definitive measures of our value. They’re often about timing, politics, and other external factors. Recognizing this doesn’t erase the sting of disappointment, but it reframes those moments, helping me see that my self-worth isn’t tied to titles or accolades.

This golden apple feels symbolic now—not of the recognition I once craved but of the clarity I’ve gained. It represents a turning point in my life, a quiet but important realization that my value doesn’t come from external validation. I’ve grown up in ways I wasn’t even aware of until this moment. I no longer need an award to feel worthy or successful. The relationships I’ve built with my students, the lessons I’ve taught, and the small moments of connection and understanding I see in their eyes—these are my true rewards. They aren’t flashy, and they don’t come with trophies or ceremonies, but they are infinitely more meaningful.

And yet, I also recognize that this journey hasn’t been straightforward. Letting go of the desire for validation hasn’t been as simple as flipping a switch. There are still moments when I feel those old pangs of inadequacy, especially when I see others celebrated for their achievements. I’ve learned, though, to celebrate those moments for what they are—a chance to reflect, to acknowledge others’ successes without making them about me. I’ve been fortunate enough to see several of my friends win the Golden Apple, and I’ve been genuinely proud of them. Their successes don’t diminish mine, and that’s a lesson it’s taken me a long time to internalize.

These apples now sit on my desk, not as trophies or validations of my worth, but as reminders of growth. Growth isn’t always flashy or award-winning. Sometimes, it’s quiet and deeply personal, like the glow of a golden apple sitting on your desk, reminding you of who you’ve become. In their simplicity and beauty, they remind me that I don’t need to be an award-winning teacher or administrator to be enough. I already am.

Always,

Dave

Il Duomo (2014)

The drawing Il Duomo rests in my art box wrapped carefully in brown paper. It is a small yet profound piece of art. Its sepia tones and deliberate lines capture the majesty of the dome and the surrounding buildings, as seen from the Belvedere. It’s not polished like a gallery masterpiece, but that’s part of its charm. It was a gift from my brother, who chose it knowing my love for Thomas Harris and the haunting brilliance of Hannibal Lecter. “That is the Duomo seen from the Belvedere. Do you know Florence?” Hannibal’s words resonate as I look at this piece. And through it, I feel as though I do after a fashion. 

What makes this drawing extraordinary is not just its subject or its personal significance to me but the tradition it represents. The artist who created this piece likely sat on the streets of Florence, capturing the city’s grandeur for passersby. Their work reflects the rich history of street artists—those who bring art out of galleries and into the heart of urban life. Street art has always been about accessibility, about meeting people where they are, whether through a quick sketch, a mural on a wall, or a wheat-pasted poster in an alley. This drawing belongs to that lineage, blending the artist’s skill with the spirit of the city itself.

Florence has always been a muse for artists. Its architecture, its light, its sense of timelessness make it an irresistible subject. The Duomo, with its iconic dome designed by Brunelleschi, dominates the skyline and embodies the city’s Renaissance ingenuity. In Thomas Harris’s world, Florence becomes more than a city—it’s an extension of Hannibal Lecter’s character. Its beauty and history mirror his own cultured elegance, while its hidden corners and violent past reflect his darker, more brutal side. This drawing, in its simplicity, brings both the city and those literary connections to life for me.

When my brother gave me this drawing, he didn’t just give me a piece of Florence; he gave me something that ties together so many threads of meaning. It’s a reminder of how art, when chosen thoughtfully, becomes a shared language. My brother knew my love for Hannibal and my fascination with Florence, and this drawing speaks to both. It also reminds me of the power of small gestures to create lasting connections. The art itself is modest, but the thought behind the gift makes it immeasurable.

As I study the drawing, I think about the artist who created it. Perhaps they sat on a quiet street, sketching the skyline for hours, or perhaps they worked quickly to sell their work to tourists. Either way, their art isn’t just a depiction of the Duomo—it’s a piece of their experience, their observation of Florence on that particular day. Street artists have always been chroniclers of the present, capturing the essence of a place in a way that feels immediate and alive. Their work democratizes art, making it available to anyone willing to pause and look. In this way, they connect us not just to places but to moments.

This drawing has become more than just an image on my wall. It’s a bridge—to Florence, to my love for Thomas Harris’s work, to the tradition of street artists, and to my relationship with my brother. When Hannibal asks, “Do you know Florence?” I think of the layers of meaning in this small piece of art and how it answers that question for me. Through this drawing, I feel as though I do know Florence—not just as a city, but as an idea, a tradition, and a story told through the hands of an artist.

At Prayer (1858)

My love for the show Fake or Fortune? stems from its unique ability to blend art history, science, and detective work into a narrative that feels both enlightening and suspenseful. Each episode takes viewers on a journey of discovery, unraveling mysteries that turn overlooked or doubted works into treasures of cultural and historical significance. Of all the episodes I’ve watched, the one featuring At Prayer (1858) by Jean-Léon Gérôme stands out, not only for its compelling story but for the way it highlights the critical role provenance plays in the art world.

When the painting was initially brought to the show, it was attributed to the "Circle of Gérôme," a nebulous designation that hinted at its connection to the renowned French Orientalist but denied it any definitive authenticity. The presenters, Fiona Bruce and Philip Mould, began their investigation with a mix of optimism and skepticism, which mirrors the tension I feel as a viewer. Is this truly a lost masterpiece, or just another forgery?

The team’s process to establish the painting's authenticity was meticulous. Using forensic tools like X-ray and ultraviolet imaging, they uncovered layers of the painting’s history hidden beneath the surface. These technical analyses provided clues, but they weren’t enough on their own. The breakthrough came with the input of art historian Emily Weeks, who examined stylistic elements and historical records to definitively attribute the painting to Gérôme. The combination of scientific rigor and expert insight was captivating—a testament to how modern tools and deep scholarship together can bring the truth to light.

At the heart of this episode was the concept of provenance. The history of ownership, documentation, and context surrounding At Prayer was a fragmented puzzle that had to be pieced together. Provenance in the art world is more than just a paper trail; it is the narrative that transforms a painting from an anonymous object into a piece of living history. Without it, even the most beautiful artwork can languish in obscurity, its true value and significance unrecognized.

This episode underscored how fragile an artwork's identity can be when its provenance is incomplete or contested. It also illuminated the power of rediscovery. The painting’s journey from the shadows of "Circle of Gérôme" to being authenticated as an original Gérôme and fetching over £94,500 at auction was nothing short of remarkable. It wasn’t just the monetary value that increased—it was the restoration of the artist’s voice and vision to a piece once thought lost.

What I admire most about Fake or Fortune? is how it elevates the significance of these stories. The show doesn’t just tell us whether a painting is real or fake—it invites us to appreciate the layers of history, expertise, and passion that define the art world. Watching At Prayer come to life through this process reminded me why I find art so enthralling. Each painting has a story, and through the dedication of those who seek to uncover the truth, that story can be told.

In the end, Fake or Fortune? reflects the enduring human need to connect with the past, to find meaning in what others have left behind, and to celebrate the triumph of discovery. For me, the episode featuring At Prayer was a perfect example of why this show has become one of my favorites—it proves that every painting has a chance to reclaim its rightful place in history, provided someone cares enough to uncover the truth.

Saint Francis in Ecstasy (1636)

Bernardo Strozzi’s Saint Francis in Ecstasy is a masterful depiction of the intersection between divine devotion and human experience and one of my favorite religious works of art. The painting captures Saint Francis in a moment of profound spiritual transformation, his arms raised in prayer and his face marked by an expression that teeters between pain and pleasure. This ambiguity is striking and deeply resonant, inviting the viewer to consider the complexities of devotion and the emotional depth of religious ecstasy.

Upon first encountering the work, it was Saint Francis’ eyes that captivated me. They are not easily categorized as conveying either joy or suffering, but rather an intricate balance of both. This duality reflects an essential element of the painting: the paradox of finding joy in suffering. The stigmata, prominently displayed on his raised hands, becomes a historical symbol of devotion—a means of participating in Christ’s suffering. For Francis, as Strozzi portrays, suffering is not merely an end but a transformative process, akin to the pain of birth, that leads to spiritual fulfillment.

This idea of transformation through self-discipline resonates deeply with me. Although my own relationship with religion has shifted over the years, leaving behind traditional Christian structures, I find echoes of this discipline in Stoic philosophy. Both perspectives—Christian and Stoic—value suffering not as an affliction but as an opportunity for growth and refinement. Strozzi’s Saint Francis embodies this principle, his ecstatic expression suggesting a profound acceptance of his pain as a path to transcendence.

The symbols within the painting reinforce its message of discipline and devotion. The skull and open book, traditional elements of Franciscan iconography, remind the viewer of mortality and the pursuit of divine knowledge. Yet it is the saint’s posture—open, vulnerable, and unwavering—that most powerfully communicates his self-discipline. He is wholly present in his experience, surrendering himself to a greater purpose. This surrender is not passive but active, a discipline that requires focus and intentionality.

As I reflect on this painting, I am struck by how it bridges the spiritual and the human, the religious and the philosophical. Strozzi’s Francis is both a figure of Christian devotion and a universal representation of the transformative power of self-discipline. For me, this work serves as a reminder that discipline, whether rooted in faith or philosophy, is a means of achieving clarity, purpose, and ultimately, transcendence.

Smoke Lake (1915)

Tom Thomson’s Smoke Lake is a small yet powerful painting that captures a fleeting moment with raw emotion. Its unpolished quality, marked by loose brushstrokes and vibrant colors, draws the viewer into the artist’s process, emphasizing immediacy over meticulous detail. This lack of refinement is not a weakness but a strength, allowing the painting to convey an authenticity that feels alive and deeply resonant. In a world where art is often judged by its precision, Smoke Lake reminds us that the power of a work lies in its ability to communicate feeling rather than flawless execution.

As an art enthusiast, I find Smoke Lake compelling because it feels so human in its approach. The painting does not aim to overwhelm with grandeur or technical perfection but instead captures a moment that feels intimate and familiar. The unpolished quality invites the viewer to imagine the artist outdoors, brush in hand, working against the fading light to capture the scene before it slips away. This immediacy, this sense of being present at the creation of the work, is what makes Smoke Lake resonate so strongly. It is not about perfecting nature but about engaging with it, distilling its essence in a way that is both personal and universal.

The beauty of Smoke Lake lies in its ability to evoke a scene without dictating it. Thomson’s brushstrokes are bold and expressive, more concerned with the movement of water and the warmth of light than with photographic realism. The result is a painting that feels alive, as though the water might ripple or the sun might sink just a little lower as you watch. By leaving space for interpretation, Thomson allows viewers to bring their own experiences and emotions to the painting. This collaboration between artist and audience creates a shared sense of wonder, reminding us that art is as much about what it evokes as what it depicts.

Reflecting on Smoke Lake also brings to mind the ways we define and value art. Too often, we focus on technical mastery, mistaking precision for meaning. Yet here, Thomson shows us that unpolished does not mean incomplete. The painting’s vitality comes from its honesty, its willingness to embrace imperfection. It is not a work concerned with impressing anyone; instead, it is a deeply personal expression of a moment, and that makes it all the more powerful. In many ways, it mirrors life itself, where the most meaningful moments are often those that are unscripted and unpolished.

For me, Smoke Lake serves as a reminder to look beyond the surface, both in art and in life. Its unpolished nature challenges us to see beauty in the raw and the incomplete, to value the process as much as the outcome. As an art enthusiast, I find this perspective both liberating and inspiring. It encourages me to engage with art not as a passive observer but as an active participant, finding my own meaning within the work.

Stormy Sea (1857)

Simeon Marcus Larson’s Stormy Sea (1857) is a striking example of Romanticism’s obsession with the sublime—nature’s overwhelming power and humanity’s fragile place within it. The painting’s golden light breaking through stormy clouds and waves crashing around a lone, battered ship evoke both hope and dread, a tension central to the Romantic movement. Larson’s dramatic use of light and shadow intensifies this emotional pull, situating viewers in a moment of existential reflection on resilience, vulnerability, and survival.

The ship, isolated and dwarfed by the tempest, becomes a symbol of human perseverance. Romantic art often focused on nature’s untamed grandeur, and Larson’s turbulent sea captures this with dynamic energy. His palette of glowing yellows and deep shadows mirrors the duality of the storm—simultaneously threatening and beautiful. Like J.M.W. Turner’s works, Larson’s seascape uses light not just as a physical element but as an emotional force, a flicker of hope amid chaos.

For me, Larson’s painting speaks directly to my fascination with maritime art, literature, and games. Growing up in landlocked Southwest Missouri, the sea was a distant, almost mythical idea. Yet I’ve always been drawn to its symbolism of freedom and adventure. Books like Master and Commander and Two Years Before the Mast brought these themes to life, filling me with a longing for the untethered life of the open sea. Even now, I find myself escaping to Sea of Thieves, a game that taps into this same yearning for exploration, danger, and camaraderie on the waves. The ship in Stormy Sea reminds me of the fragile vessels I command in the game, each storm and encounter an adventure in resilience, creativity, and survival.

The seagulls circling in Larson’s painting further deepen its Romantic symbolism. They suggest continuity, life persisting even amid chaos, much like the persistence required in Sea of Thieves. There is a shared thrill in navigating a digital storm and imagining the human story within Larson’s canvas. As Joseph Conrad wrote in The Mirror of the Sea: “The sea has never been friendly to man. At most, it has been the accomplice of human restlessness.” This restlessness, both in Romantic art and my own imagination, is what draws me to the freedom and peril the sea represents.

Larson’s Stormy Sea captures more than the natural world—it reflects the human experience. For me, it bridges the adventure I seek in books, games, and stories with my own inner storms. It is a reminder of life’s challenges and the resilience we find within ourselves to weather them. In both the painting and Sea of Thieves, I see the same story: a fragile vessel navigating chaos, driven by hope, freedom, and the unrelenting pull of the unknown. Larson’s work endures because it speaks to the Romantic truth that life’s storms, however daunting, are where we discover our greatest strength.

At the Door of the School (1897)

Nikolay Bogdanov-Belsky’s At the Door of the School (1897) captures a poignant moment that resonates deeply with those who understand the transformative power of education. The painting, a work of remarkable realism and emotional depth, depicts a young boy standing at the threshold of a classroom. His clothes are worn and tattered, and he carries a simple bundle on his back, embodying the poverty and social exclusion common among rural Russian peasants of the late 19th century. His stance at the door, both physically close yet psychologically distant, speaks to a universal desire for knowledge and inclusion—a desire complicated by the barriers imposed by poverty.

Bogdanov-Belsky, a notable figure in Russian art, was well-acquainted with the struggles of peasant life. Born into poverty himself, he managed to gain an education and later attended the prestigious Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture. His personal background is critical to understanding At the Door of the School, as his art often explores themes of rural education and the obstacles faced by children in impoverished communities. The artist’s sensitivity to this experience elevates the painting from a mere genre scene to a profound social commentary. The child’s hopeful gaze into the classroom reflects a longing for what he cannot easily access: the opportunity to learn and grow within a system that, in Bogdanov-Belsky’s time, largely excluded the rural poor.

The painting's composition is equally compelling, with the viewer’s gaze directed over the boy’s shoulder into a warmly lit room where other children are engaged in their studies. The interior’s glow contrasts sharply with the muted tones surrounding the boy, emphasizing both his physical and metaphorical distance from the world of learning. Bogdanov-Belsky uses light and shadow to underscore the boy’s isolation, heightening the emotional impact of the scene. It is an image of longing, tinged with a quiet resilience, as if the boy’s presence at the door signals his determination to overcome his circumstances.

For an educator, particularly one dedicated to working with at-risk students, the themes in At the Door of the School resonate profoundly. The scene is not merely historical but a reflection of ongoing struggles faced by countless children who remain “on the outside,” separated by socioeconomic barriers that persist even in contemporary education systems. As someone who witnesses these struggles daily, I find myself returning to Bogdanov-Belsky’s painting with a mixture of empathy and resolve. The image reminds me that while the barriers may have evolved, the stakes remain the same: education can be a lifeline, a transformative force for those who, like the boy at the door, seek a way in.

In this context, At the Door of the School becomes more than an artwork; it becomes a call to action. Bogdanov-Belsky’s compassionate portrayal urges educators and society alike to examine our responsibilities toward those who stand on the periphery of opportunity. The painting’s relevance endures, encouraging us to not only open doors but also to actively dismantle the barriers that keep them shut for so many. As I strive to create an inclusive classroom where every student feels seen and supported, Bogdanov-Belsky’s work stands as a timeless reminder of the power of access and the ongoing need to advocate for a public education system that serves all.

Date Night

 

Sappho of Lesbos (1927)

Sappho of Lesbos, as captured in Enrique Simonet’s painting, sits alone beside a fire, her face contemplative, her lyre resting within reach. She seems caught between worlds, grounded in the earthy, muted tones of the landscape but consumed by a deeper, unspoken yearning. The scene is one of quiet solitude, a fitting tribute to a poet whose verses, though fragmented by time, have transcended centuries with their intimate portrayals of love and loss. In Simonet’s portrayal, we find a Sappho who is at once a mythical figure and a real woman—a human who, like all of us, wrestles with the weight of her inner life.

Sappho’s voice, resonating from ancient Greece, remains one of the purest articulations of the feminine experience, a melody composed of love, desire, and vulnerability. She was among the first to give public voice to private feeling, breaking the traditional mold of poetry that celebrated epic heroes and instead delving into the nuances of her own heart. Her words capture the intensity of love as both a relief and a source of consuming desire, a feeling so vivid it seems timeless. As she writes in one fragment, "You came, and I was crazy for you, / And you cooled my mind that burned with longing." In just a few lines, Sappho distills the essence of love—the way it can both soothe and ignite, bringing both peace and torment.

This legacy of vulnerability and introspection is what Hilda Doolittle (H.D.) would later explore and expand upon in Fragment Thirty-six. In her poem, H.D. doesn’t simply echo Sappho’s words; she translates them through her own modern experience, transforming Sappho’s musings on love into a rich tapestry of internal conflict. H.D.’s voice is filled with the same divided mind, the same hesitation, mirroring Sappho’s uncertainties. Through this, H.D. connects with Sappho not just as an ancient poet but as a kindred spirit, wrestling with her own insecurities and desires. She builds a bridge between herself and Sappho, and between the ancient and the modern, creating a continuous dialogue about what it means to love and to create.

This lineage of feminine introspection, of speaking the unspeakable, finds its contemporary echo in Taylor Swift, a modern-day lyricist who transforms her personal life into public art. Much like Sappho, Swift uses her experiences—her heartbreaks, triumphs, and vulnerabilities—as material for her work, inviting listeners into her inner world. In her song All Too Well, she writes, "You call me up again just to break me like a promise, / So casually cruel in the name of being honest." Swift’s lyrics, like Sappho’s, speak to the complexities of love—the way it can heal but also hurt, often blurring the line between affection and agony. Her words resonate with anyone who has felt the highs and lows of a relationship, creating an emotional bridge from ancient Greece to the present day. 

Simonet’s painting captures Sappho at a moment of introspective silence, a moment that could just as easily belong to H.D. or Swift—each, in her own way, seeking to give voice to the inner life that so often goes unspoken. Sappho’s contemplative pose by the fire, her hand resting on her lyre, is an image of creation born from introspection, a quiet pause before turning personal experience into art. It is a moment of solitude that precedes connection, a reminder that true art often comes from the most private places. In this way, Sappho, H.D., and Swift form an unbroken line of women who dare to express their innermost thoughts and feelings, transforming them into something universal.

Together, these women reveal a legacy of feminine creativity that refuses to be silenced. Sappho’s fragmented verses, H.D.’s conflicted lines, and Swift’s confessional lyrics each embody the courage to bring the inner life into the public sphere, to turn whispers into words that resonate across time. Sappho’s fire still burns, passed down through generations of women who have used art to explore the deepest corners of their own hearts. In their work, they find power not in resolution but in the courage to live within the tension, to share that tension, and to invite others into it.

In their hands, art becomes an endless dialogue—a quiet conversation by the fire, passed from one soul to the next, a testament to the resilience of women’s voices that continue to shape culture, giving strength and solace to those who listen. Through their words, their songs, their images, they remind us that the language of the heart is timeless, an eternal flame that both warms and illuminates, guiding us as we seek to understand ourselves and each other. In each line, they invite us to join them beside the fire, to feel the heat of love and loss, and to know that, across time, we are not alone.

***

Fragment Thirty-six

By H.D.

I know not what to do:

my mind is divided.

~Sappho

I know not what to do,

my mind is reft:

is song's gift best?

is love's gift loveliest?

I know not what to do,

now sleep has pressed

weight on your eyelids.

Shall I break your rest,

devouring, eager?

is love's gift best?

nay, song's the loveliest:

yet were you lost,

what rapture 

could I take from song?

what song were left?

I know not what to do:

to turn and slake

the rage that burns,

with my breath burn

and trouble your cool breath?

so shall I turn and take

snow in my arms?

(is love's gift best?)

yet flake on flake

of snow were comfortless,

did you lie wondering,

wakened yet unawake.

Shall I turn and take

comfortless snow within my arms?

press lips to lips 

that answer not,

press lips to flesh

that shudders not nor breaks?

Is love's gift best?—

shall I turn and slake

all the wild longing?

O I am eager for you!

as the Pleiads shake

white light in whiter water

so shall I take you?

My mind is quite divided,

my minds hesitate,

so perfect matched,

I know not what to do:

each strives with each

as two white wrestlers

standing for a match,

ready to turn and clutch

yet never shake muscle nor nerve nor tendon;

so my mind waits

to grapple with my mind,

yet I lie quiet,

I would seem at rest.

I know not what to do:

strain upon strain,

sound surging upon sound

makes my brain blind;

as a wave-line may wait to fall

yet (waiting for its falling)

still the wind may take

from off its crest,

white flake on flake of foam,

that rises,

seeming to dart and pulse

and rend the light,

so my mind hesitates

above the passion

quivering yet to break,

so my mind hesitates 

above my mind,

listening to song's delight.

I know not what to do:

will the sound break,

rending the night

with rift on rift of rose

and scattered light?

will the sound break at last

as the wave hesitant,

or will the whole night pass

and I lie listening awake?

Apple with Leaf and Fruit Blossom (1768)

In the realm where art and science intersect, there exists a unique space that invites viewers not just to observe but to engage, to think, and to feel. Henri Louis Duhamel du Monceau’s Apple with Leaf and Fruit Blossom, created in 1768, epitomizes this synthesis. Executed as an etching and engraving, hand-colored with meticulous care, this print serves as both a scientific study and an artistic marvel. Held in the collection of The Cleveland Museum of Art, this piece belongs to a lineage of botanical illustrations that aspire to educate as much as they inspire. As a teacher, I am deeply drawn to this blend of beauty and knowledge, seeing in it a reflection of the educational ideals I strive to foster.

Duhamel du Monceau’s approach to botanical illustration is as scientific as it is artistic. His careful etching and engraving bring to life not only the apple but also its leaves, blossoms, and interior structure. Each element is rendered with precision, capturing both the texture and form of the plant. This accuracy, paired with the soft, hand-colored hues, underscores the intent to document with fidelity. The apple, symbolizing knowledge in Western iconography, is here not merely an emblem but a subject of empirical study. In examining this work, one is reminded that the pursuit of knowledge is as much about observation as it is about understanding. This blend of observation and interpretation aligns closely with the practices I seek to model in my classroom.

This work is also a product of its time, deeply rooted in the ideals of the French Enlightenment. The Enlightenment emphasized reason, scientific inquiry, and the pursuit of knowledge as a means of advancing society. French intellectuals and scientists like Voltaire, Diderot, and Buffon saw knowledge as a means to better understand the world and improve the human condition. Duhamel du Monceau’s work, in this sense, is a visual extension of these values. His precise botanical illustrations reflect the Enlightenment’s belief in cataloging, documenting, and classifying the natural world. Through this detailed study of the apple and its surrounding leaves and blossoms, Duhamel du Monceau participated in a larger cultural movement that valued empirical observation and clarity over the decorative and whimsical.

While the Rococo movement, with its ornamental style and themes of leisure, dominated the art scene of the time, works like Apple with Leaf and Fruit Blossom represent a different side of 18th-century French culture. They embody the Enlightenment’s dedication to science and reason, rather than Rococo’s playful and decorative aesthetics. This botanical illustration, therefore, serves not only as a record of natural beauty but as a testament to the period’s intellectual rigor and commitment to education. The Enlightenment sought to expand human understanding, and Duhamel du Monceau’s work is a beautiful example of how art and science were combined to make knowledge accessible and inspiring.

The educational intent behind this print resonates with me on a professional level. As a teacher, I often strive to show students that learning is not merely about facts; it is about immersion, exploration, and connection. Works like Apple with Leaf and Fruit Blossom demonstrate that knowledge can be conveyed not just through words but through visual forms that appeal to the senses. The detailed depiction of the apple’s structure, the veins in its leaves, and the delicate blossoms offer an invitation to understand the natural world not only intellectually but viscerally. Such a piece encourages a form of learning that is both aesthetic and analytical, reminding students that knowledge can indeed be beautiful.

Ultimately, Apple with Leaf and Fruit Blossom and works like it underscore the transformative power of art that educates. They demonstrate that knowledge, when presented with care and artistry, has the power not only to inform but to inspire a deep, lasting curiosity. In a classroom, this principle is invaluable. Duhamel du Monceau’s print reminds me that teaching is not merely about imparting information; it is about opening minds to the wonder of discovery, fostering a sense of connection to the world, and nurturing an appreciation for the beauty of knowledge itself.

Portrait of Gertrude Stein (1923)

In Jo Davidson's 1923 statue of Gertrude Stein, I found a profound embodiment of calm and presence. Housed in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C., this sculpture captured not only Stein’s likeness but also a sense of her spirit—a steadfast presence in the Parisian art world, revered almost with a sense of mysticism. Seeing it in person, I was struck by her quiet strength. Davidson, deeply connected to the creative circles of Paris, sculpted her with a grounded serenity that evokes the image of a modern Buddha.

Stein sits with her hands resting calmly in front, her eyes lowered, as if in deep contemplation. The simplicity of her posture invites a timeless stillness, an impression of Stein as an intellectual anchor amid the frenetic experimentation of modernism. Her pose is understated, yet it radiates a sense of stability, echoing her role as a central figure around whom artists, writers, and thinkers once gathered.

Standing before this statue, I felt an unexpected immediacy and connection. Davidson’s work felt almost alive, as though Stein herself were present, embodying a stillness that paradoxically seemed to hum with energy. This representation, immobile and grounded, offered a glimpse into Stein’s enduring influence—a figure who remains both tangible and timeless. The modern Buddha, captured in stone, invites us to pause, reflect, and feel the quiet force of her legacy.

***

Study Nature

By Gertrude Stein

I do.   

    Victim.

    Sales   

    Met   

    Wipe   

    Her   

    Less.

    Was a disappointment

    We say it.

                     Study nature.   

    Or

    Who   

    Towering.

    Mispronounced

    Spelling.

    She   

    Was   

    Astonishing

    To

    No   

    One   

    For   

    Fun

                     Study from nature.   

    I

    Am   

    Pleased

    Thoroughly

    I

    Am   

    Thoroughly

    Pleased.

    By.   

    It.

    It is very likely.

                     They said so.

    Oh.

    I want.   

    To do.

    What

    Is

    Later

    To

    Be

    Refined.

    By   

    Turning.

    Of turning around.

                     I will wait.