#melencolia

[kiersau]

O quam mirabilis est inspiratio que hominem sic suscitavit.

#pentiment #Beatrice #my art #melancholia #references used include an illuminated psalm and a Botticelli painting #click for better quality #melencholia #melencolia #500

[galedekarios]

the beauty of pentiment

#pentimentedit #pentiment #andreas maler #sister illuminata #beatrice pentiment #melencolia #gamingedit #dailygaming #gamingnetwork #vg: pentiment #gif: mypentiment #my ongoing love affair with pentiment and its art style

[tuinendraws]

From melancholia to madness

#pentiment #obsidian entertainment #andreas maler #melencolia #pentiment spoilers #sort of

[eebzly]

Melencolia Reigns

#eebz draws #fanart #pentiment #obsidian entertainment #melencolia

[plrle]

o gentle beatrice, guide me out of here

#pentiment #andreas maler #pentiment beatrice #beatrice pentiment #beatrice #melencolia #melencholia #artists on tumblr #digital art #my art #art

[allweknewisdead]

Melencolia I (1514) and details - Albrecht Dürer

Die Melancholie (1514). – Ein geflügeltes Weib, das auf einer Stufe an der Mauer sitzt, ganz tief am Boden, ganz schwer, wie jemand, der nicht bald wieder aufzustehen gedenkt. Der Kopf ruht aus dem untergestützten Arm mit der Hand, die zur Faust geschlossen ist. In der andern Hand hält sie einen Zirkel, aber nur mechanisch: sie macht nichts damit. Die Kugel, die zum Zirkel gehört, rollt am Boden. Das Buch auf dem Schoß bleibt geschlossen. Die Haare fallen in wirren Strähnen, trotz dem zierlichen Kränzchen, und düster blicken die Augen aus dem schattendunklen Antlitz. Wohin geht der Blick? Auf den großen Block? Oder nicht eher darüber hinweg ins Leere? Nur die Augen wandern, der Kopf folgt nicht der Blickrichtung. Alles ist Müde, Dumpfheit, Regungslosigkeit.

Aber ringsherum ist's lebendig. Ein Chaos von Dingen. Der geometrische Block steht da, groß, fast drohend; unheimlich, weil es aussieht, als ob er fallen wollte. Ein halbverhungerter Hund liegt am Boden. Die Kugel. Und daneben eine Menge Werkzeuge. Hobel, Säge, Lineal, Nägel, Zange – alles ungenützt, unordentlich zerstreut.

Was soll das heißen? Als Erklärung steht oben, den Flügeln einer Fledermaus eingeschrieben, das Wort: MELENCOLIA I.

Heinrich Wölfflin. Die Kunst Albrecht Dürers (1905)

#dürer #albrecht dürer #melencolia I #melencolia #Melancholie #kunst #gravur #engraving #texts about art #bildbeschreibung #sprache und kunst #verbildlichung / verschriftlichung von mir beim these schreiben #ugh #melancholia

[modwyr]

No thoughts for Beatrice?

#pentiment #melencolia #forgive me while i think about this game forever and ever and ever #my art

[hzltryingtowrite]

Cycling and being a cog

I was cycling to work last Tuesday morning, it was raining heavily. Everything was pretty quiet and I thought a little bit about how it felt like some kind of ritual self-punishment to be resolutely spinning forward, to work, of all places, while getting absolutely sopping wet. 

When I got home i went on the turbo-trainer for an hour and a half- it’s kind of like my hamster wheel. On this i continue to pedal and afterwards I get off and I’m reeling from all of the endorphins. I don’t know, I could make some kind of Sisyphean allegory here but I don’t want to be thought of as having notions. I have no such notions about myself. A few weeks ago, i flew too close to the sun (oops, notions) and my wheels fell off- i had been getting so good at doing the thing- getting up, cycling to work, working, cycling home, cycling continuously in one spot for an hour or more, listening to a medieval history podcast, making/eating dinner and then picking from one or more of my interests to cultivate for the rest of the evening. I had a little daily checklist of things I was supposed to do, i read the foreword of Atomic Habits, i found myself on r/productivity and I thought i could feel new synapses forming.

I don’t know what prompted it exactly but i veered off course at some stage and found myself spending my weekends and evenings wandering absently from room to room in the house- I find i spend a lot of time staring out the kitchen window- sometimes i can see a little boy in one of the apartments across the way doing the same thing, I’m pretty sure he’s autistic from the way he rocks back and forth and flaps his fingers. I think I’m probably rocking a bit too, but mostly I’m just trying to take in heat from the radiator, it feels like a bath. I usually have BBC Radio 6 on but then i might switch it to something else. Lately I’ve been listening to a lot of シテイポップ which makes me feel nostalgic for memories I don’t have and a bit deranged. I know its bad when nothing is making the lights in my brain blink on and my media consumption mirrors the way in which my thoughts are occurring, hopping haphazardly from one subject to another- I actually don’t know if one begets the other- in general it is a bit of a chicken and the egg situation and I wonder whether my falling off my routine and hobbies is what leads to my being melancholic or if the lack of motivation and greyness is intrinsic. I know that most likely it is a bit of both and I visualise it as some kind of paradoxical perpetual motion machine which gains momentum from my own inertia. 

I don’t need to be more explicit here with the whole cycling and working cog analogy. I suppose that’s why it feels so freeing to me to cycle with no particular direction- I’m still pedalling and sweating but the heat and effort has more of a cathartic effect- while i write this I’m reminded of when i went to Japan last summer after a few of what had been some of the most difficult months in my life. That was really strange- i went from what felt like i was being metaphysically beaten up in a playground week after week to suddenly being completely alone in Tokyo where i wandered aimlessly around the labyrinth in 40+ degrees heat- i was too overstimulated and jet-lagged to eat or sleep, i just sweated continuously and drank litres of ポカリand カルピス. I wondered how much energy it took to keep all of the vending machines powered and how many plastic bottles i had discarded and i also wondered when I’d stopped caring so much about that stuff. At times i felt like a ghost or a floating head on a pilgrimage, undergoing a ritual cleansing, the inverse from the ritual cycle in the rain. 

Anyway, maybe I’m just bored and i want to go back to Tokyo.

#Depressionsession #Depression-session #Wallowing #melencolia

[mja]

Melencolia VMMCMXCMDCCCXXXIV

#stable diffusion #diffusers #generative art #Melencolia

[kwockwoc]

reblogging all these moody wintry images even though it's the cusp of summer here lol

#melencolia #or whatever

[astriiformes]

<- Guy who had a really intense, productive therapy session today where he cried his eyes out and also recommended Pentiment to his therapist

#[through tears] yeah they just released it on a bunch more platforms #in my defense i was using a certain metaphor they did with melencolia that really resonated with me to explain a thing #but also. parody of myself

[karrova]

Albrecht Dürer

Melencolia I (Bartsch 74; Meder, Hollstein 75)

#Albrecht Dürer #Melencolia I (Bartsch 74; Meder #Hollstein 75) #m #art

[arinewman7]

Dürer’s Magic Square

#Albrecht Dürer #art #artist #Melencolia I #1514 #Dürer’s Magic Square

[fabiansteinhauer]

Akt

Wie kann Reinach so selbstbewusst darüber sprechen und schreiben, was ein Akt ist? Wo doch seine Kollegen laufend widersprechen!

Dafür, nach Vismann, bräuchte man nicht nur Bewußtein und nicht nur dessen Selbstreferenz. Sprechen und Schreiben sind auch Kulturtechniken, für die man Medien und Dinge, Stifte und Papiere braucht und in deren Praxis es nicht unbedingt auf das Selbstbewußtsein, weder auf das Selbst noch auf das Bewußtsein ankommt.

Antwort nach Vismann deswegen: Reinach kann über den Akt schreiben, wie er es tut, weil er die Akten händeln kann, er kann bestreiten, was ein Akt sein soll.

Der Workshop zu Adolf Reinach ist eine melancholische Tagung, hier wird gründlich und apriorisch gegrübelt.

#adolf reinach #Polarforschung #melencolia I #die apriorischen grundlagen des bürgerlichen rechts

[vilyanenyavilya]

Melencolia I. Albrecht Dürer.

#albrecht dürer #renaissance #still connect with this #Melencolia I

[kforourke]

Ideas of Others

Color me both frustrated and unsurprised: a few days ago, The New Yorker published a long interview with one of my very favorite people on earth, Werner Herzog. This being the New Yorker, and this being Herzog, the article was of course required reading, and I may or may not have yelped with pleasure when I first saw the link. But then I started to read it, and this humdinger of a sentence was...the second sentence in the piece:

During quarantine, he finished two films: a documentary called “The Fire Within: A Requiem for Katia and Maurice Krafft,” about a pair of French volcanologists; and another, “Theater of Thought,” about neurotechnology and artificial intelligence. Both are forthcoming.

Why, you might ask, would this frustrate me? Well, and I’ve written about this before, my getting-there-but-still-not-done book about surviving suicide includes a chapter about none other than...Katia and Maurice Krafft. So it’s frustrating to hear that Werner Herzog of all people—the guy who made Fitzcarraldo and Grizzly Man and Happy People, among so many others!—and a dude whose work I **quote in said as-yet-unpublished-but-finished chapter** is making a film about the Kraffts. Sigh! I knew I should have finished this thing earlier.*

Then again, running into others with similar ideas should hardly be new for any artist—the sometimes (frequently?) false lure of originality is as much a part of artistic production as is rejection.**

So why should finding out that one’s ideas might not be as original as one thought sting, sorta? Aside, of course, from our innate desire to be special?

The eighteenth century British poet and writer Edward Young, in his (admittedly wordy, but it was written in the 1750s, so c’mon) “Conjectures on Original Composition,” might have an answer why:

Originals are, and ought to be, great favorites, for they are great benefactors; they extend the republic of letters, and add a new province to its dominion: imitators only give us a sort duplicate of what we had, possibly much better, before; increasing the mere drug of books, while all that makes them valuable, knowledge and genius, are at a stand. The pen of an original writer, like Armida’s wand, out of a barren waste calls a blooming spring: out of that blooming spring an imitator is a transplanter of laurels, which sometimes die on removal, always languish in foreign soil.

To which I can only respond with a nod, a shrug, and an image of perhaps the most famous tortured-artist print, Durer’s Melencolia I.

...

*Not that my not publishing my work before Herzog’s film comes out really matters, because my work is hardly in competition with Herzog’s (ha!). But the point re: frustration re: “I did it first, ugh, man!” stands.

**And really, how much art is produced alone? Sure, in the silence of one’s mind, it happens alone there, but it takes a village to publish any book, or exhibit and publicize and sell any work of art, et cetera. “No man is an island entire of itself; every man / is a piece of a continent, a part of the main.”

...

Thanks to Wikimedia for the amazing picture of Herzog et al. (come for Herzog, stay for Donald Sutherland and Brad Dourif‘s hair) posing during the press tour for the poorly received 1991 film Scream of Stone, which is “about a climbing expedition on Cerro Torre.”

Here’s the trailer. It’s dramatic!

Melencolia I image via the Met.

#werner herzog #albrecht dürer #melencolia I #Volcanos #katia and maurice krafft #originality #art