#dame edith sitwell

[infinitemarilynmonroe]

Marilyn Monroe and Dame Edith Sitwell, 1953.

#marilyn monroe #monroedit #dame edith sitwell #1950s #vintage #old hollywood #hollywood #classic hollywood #golden age of hollywood #edit #my edit #50s #1953

[dark-chocolate-and-red-wine]

#dame edith sitwell #edith sitwell #writers #poetry

[patronsaintofhomosandpain]

ALLEGEDLY Dame Edith Sitwell liked to lie in a coffin for a while before she would start writing. I can't find any concrete evidence of this, but it's goth as fuck and I HAD to share it.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊◑ ● ◐₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

#fun facts #random facts #interesting facts #facts #dame edith sitwell #edith sitwell #gothic #goth #random #spilled thoughts #thoughts #shower thoughts #ffs (fun facts saturday)

[porqueamamosler]

"Não importa o status ou a posição, o amante de livros é o mais rico e o mais feliz dos seres humanos."

Dame Edith Sitwell (1887-1964)

#Dame Edith Sitwell #porque amamos ler #o lúdico

[cystw]

Still Falls the Rain, by Dame Edith Sitwell

Still falls the Rain—

Dark as the world of man, black as our loss—

Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails

Upon the Cross.

Still falls the Rain

With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat

In the Potter’s Field, and the sound of the impious feet on the Tomb.

Still falls the Rain

In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain

Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.

Still falls the Rain

At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.

Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us—

On Dives and on Lazarus:

Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.

Still falls the Rain—

Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man’s wounded Side:

He bears in His Heart all wounds,—those of the light that died,

The last faint spark

In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,

The wounds of the baited bear—

The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat

On his helpless flesh… the tears of the hunted hare.

Still falls the Rain—

Then— O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune—

See, see where Christ’s blood streames in the firmament:

It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree

Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart

That holds the fires of the world,—dark-smirched with pain

As Caesar’s laurel crown.

Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man

Was once a child who among beasts has lain—

“Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood for thee.”

#Dame Edith Sitwell #floods

[gatabella]

Marilyn Monroe during her meeting with Dame Edith Sitwell, 1953

#marilyn monroe

[milksockets]

dame edith sitwell in rings through the ages - rizzoli (1981)

#my scan #jewelry

[george-the-good]

Cecil Beaton in his London studio, 1967 (photo by Roger Bamber)

Just 18 months into my newspaper career I was sent to photograph the famous society photographer Cecil Beaton at his home in Kensington. He announced that the perfect setting for the portrait would be at the foot of his brass bed. So we arranged Dame Edith Sitwell, Audrey Hepburn, Queen Elizabeth II, her father, King George VI, and a few others in his bedroom and he composed himself gracefully on the floor.

- Roger Bamber

#King George VI #Queen Elizabeth II #Cecil Beaton #British Royal Family

[psikonauti]

Alvaro Guevara (Chilean,1894-1951)

Dame Edith Sitwell, 1916  

Oil on canvas

#Alvaro Guevara #upl #va #art #painting

[all-you-need-is-a-spoon]

Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury // I'm Only Happy When It Rains, Garbage // Frankenstein, Mary Shelley // Coraline, Henry Selick // No Rain, Blind Melon // Little Women, Louisa May Alcott // One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez // The Book of Questions (III), Pablo Neruda // Unbreakable, M Night Shyamalan // The Merchant of Venice, William Shakespeare // Still Falls the Rain, Dame Edith Sitwell // Mulan, Disney // Tuck Everlasting, Natalie Babbitt // Why Does It Always Rain on Me, Travis // It's Raining Again, Supertramp // Les Miserables, Tom Hooper // A Little Fall of Rain, Les Miserables // The Book of Questions (LXVI), Pablo Neruda // You Said Is, E.E. Cummings

#web weaving #parallels #fahrenheit 451 #I'm only happy when it rains #Frankenstein #Coraline #no rain #little women #pablo neruda #unbreakable #the merchant of venice #still falls the rain #mulan #tuck everlasting #why does it always rain on me #it's raining again #Les Miserables #you said is #ee cummings #rain

[mister-crow]

"For I was like one dead, like a small ghost, A little cold air wandering and lost."

-Colonel Fantock, by Dame Edith Sitwell

#collage #artists on tumblr #edith sitwell #typography #text art #drawing #sketch #doodle #creative #celestial

[sergestavisky]

I don't know comfort, but excitement

Dame Edith Sitwell, 1959 interview 

#english poetry #old quotes #edith sitwell #old interviews #why do i like these people so much #british aristocracy

[bala5]

Marilyn with Edith Sitwell.

Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell DBE (7 September 1887 – 9 December 1964) was a British poet and critic and the eldest of the three literary Sitwells. She reacted badly to her eccentric, unloving parents and lived much of her life with her governess. She never married but became passionately attached to Russian painter Pavel Tchelitchew, and her home was always open to London's poetic circle, to whom she was generous and helpful.

Sitwell published poetry continuously from 1913, some of it abstract and set to music. With her dramatic style and exotic costumes, she was sometimes labelled a poseur, but her work was praised for its solid technique and painstaking craftsmanship. She was a recipient of the Benson Medal of the Royal Society of Literature.

[kitschykitschykoo]

Dame Edith Sitwell...

#Original #Fantasy #Film #Diva #Kitsch #Icon #Star #Cult #pop culture

[mariacallous]

If the criterion is grandness and grandness alone, then the grandest dame of them all was someone like Dame Edith Sitwell, the poet, who back in the 1950s, at the height of her grandness, would intimidate her enemies by regarding them through a pair of lorgnettes. These days, it’s a term generally reserved for elderly female actors – hearty, salty, imperious. Americans can do it, of course – Elaine Stritch, so very great, so very grand – but may struggle to ascend to the highest reaches of haughtiness achieved by a Dame Maggie Smith or a Dame Edith Evans. You can be a national treasure, meanwhile, without being a grande dame (fight me on this, but I’d say Dame Judi falls into this category). Which brings us to Dame Angela Lansbury.

On Tuesday, news broke of her death aged 96, triggering an outpouring of affection and sadness for a cherished figure and one of the last of her generation of performers. Mind-bogglingly, Lansbury started her career in 1944 after moving to the US from Britain during the blitz and landing a role, as a teenager, alongside Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet (1944). That same year, she appeared in the movie Gaslight, with Joseph Cotton and Ingrid Bergman. She was around for the heyday of MGM musicals – I remember as a child seeing her on TV in the 1946 movie The Harvey Girls, alongside Judy Garland, and finding it impossible to connect her with the character from Murder, She Wrote. By the time she played the teapot in Beauty and the Beast in 1991 – at a mere 66 – her longevity alone had already made her beloved.

In the US, where Lansbury remained after emigrating, she was both national treasure and grande dame. It feels churlish to say this, but as a musical performer, she was never quite my cup of tea. I saw her on Broadway in 2009 in a production of A Little Night Music, co-starring Catherine Zeta-Jones, who did a quite frightening rendition of Send in the Clowns. Lansbury as Madame Armfeldt was a terrible old ham, yukking it up for an audience beside itself at the miracle of her being alive. I was immune to her Mrs Lovett in Sweeney Todd. Her cameo at the end of the movie Mary Poppins Returns, meanwhile, was the absolute bloody kitchen sink in that mess of a movie. On the other hand, I loved her in Murder, She Wrote.

I’m not sure what this is. Perhaps something to do with TV being able to absorb greater levels of camp than musical theatre. This seems counterintuitive, I know; Broadway is supposed be the ground zero of camp, except it isn’t, not really. The material in a musical is so florid to begin with, the performances have to be very tightly controlled to remain credible. There is a fine line in a musical between thrilling theatricality and everything going Jack Sparrow.

For me, in her theatre roles, Lansbury had too much self-awareness. There was an archness to her performances that seemed to wink at the audience and suggest, well, this business of singing and acting is faintly ridiculous, after all – and of course, when you play it like that, so it is. As Jessica Fletcher, however, she convinced me totally. I liked her as the teapot. Given her god love ’er status, it’s a miracle she dodged being cast as a batty old dame in the endless current remakes of Poirot, but it’s possible I may have liked her in those.

Who is left? Dame Julie Andrews (87). Dame Eileen Atkins (88). Dame Joan Plowright (92). Bassey! I’m putting Dame Shirley (85) on the list, as you must. Anyone who sings I Who Have Nothing draped head to toe in mink and covered in diamonds deserves, possibly, the crown of grandest of them all. Perhaps that was my problem with Lansbury. Never fully a leading lady in Hollywood, or quite a doyenne of the theatre, she seemed modest, likable, approachable. Not a grande dame of the first rank, perhaps, but something warmer and friendlier, whose loss may be more keenly felt.

[thesefevereddays]

Fireworks

by Dame Edith Sitwell

Pink faces (worlds or flowers or seas or stars)—

You all alike are patterned with hot bars

Of colored light; and, falling where I stand,

The sharp and rainbow splinters from the band

Seem fireworks, splinters of the Infinite

(Glitter of leaves the echoes) And the night

Will weld this dust of bright Infinity

To forms that we may touch and call and see:

Pink pyramids of faces: tulip-trees

Spilling night perfumes on the terraces.

The music, blond airs waving like a sea,

Draws in its vortex of immensity

The new-awakened flower-strange hair and eyes

Of crowds beneath the floating summer skies.

And against the silk pavilions of the sea

I watch the people move incessantly

Vibrating, petals blown from flower-hued stars

Beneath the music-fireworks' waving bars;

So all seems indivisible, at one:

The flow of hair, the flowers, the seas that run—

A colored floating music of the night

Through the pavilions of the Infinite.

#poetry