Joaquín Cortés 

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He’s a classically trained ballet and Flamenco dancer.  Joaquín Pedraja Reyes “Joaquín Cortés”.  He’s Romani from Spain.

Album Ancien culte Mahori : “Maori tau té ori ori”
Paul Gauguin  (via: paoloparisi.com)

Album Ancien culte Mahori : “Maori tau té ori ori”

Paul Gauguin  (via: paoloparisi.com)

In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.
Martin Luther King Jr.   (via golden-gal)
The universe is change; life is your perception of it.
Marcus Aurelius (via panatmansam)
Valerius De Saedeleer , 1931
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From Wiki:  Valerius De Saedeleer (1867 - 1941)    The artist Valerius De Saedeleer was born on August 4 in the Belgian city of Aalst in 1867.De Saedeleer received his first artistic training at the Gent Academy of Fine Arts of Theodore Joseph Canneel (1817-1892). He mainly painted the river Lys (Leie) and the Flemish Ardennes and was one of the major figures of the first group of the Latem School. Painter, draughtsman, etcher of landscapes, mills, riverviews, snowy landscapes in the Symbolist, Intimist, Post-Impressionist style and in some paintings Art Nouveau elements. De Saedeleer lived from November 1895 to October 1898 in Lissewege and from 1898 to 1908 in Sint-Martens-Latem. The river Lys (Leie) bight there in the subjet of some of his paintings. Then he moved to Etikhove, where an artist colony with him as the central figure was located. Valerius De Saedeleer died on 16 September in 1941 in Leupegem - Work in Museum: Brussel, Antwerpen, Gent, Aalst Deinze, Deurle.”  

Valerius De Saedeleer , 1931

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From Wiki:  Valerius De Saedeleer (1867 - 1941)    The artist Valerius De Saedeleer was born on August 4 in the Belgian city of Aalst in 1867.De Saedeleer received his first artistic training at the Gent Academy of Fine Arts of Theodore Joseph Canneel (1817-1892). He mainly painted the river Lys (Leie) and the Flemish Ardennes and was one of the major figures of the first group of the Latem School. Painter, draughtsman, etcher of landscapes, mills, riverviews, snowy landscapes in the Symbolist, Intimist, Post-Impressionist style and in some paintings Art Nouveau elements. De Saedeleer lived from November 1895 to October 1898 in Lissewege and from 1898 to 1908 in Sint-Martens-Latem. The river Lys (Leie) bight there in the subjet of some of his paintings. Then he moved to Etikhove, where an artist colony with him as the central figure was located. Valerius De Saedeleer died on 16 September in 1941 in Leupegem - Work in Museum: Brussel, Antwerpen, Gent, Aalst Deinze, Deurle.”  

Winter In Flanders
Valerius De Saedeleer 
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From Wiki:  Valerius De Saedeleer (1867 - 1941)    The artist Valerius De Saedeleer was born on August 4 in the Belgian city of Aalst in 1867.De Saedeleer received his first artistic training at the Gent Academy of Fine Arts of Theodore Joseph Canneel (1817-1892). He mainly painted the river Lys (Leie) and the Flemish Ardennes and was one of the major figures of the first group of the Latem School. Painter, draughtsman, etcher of landscapes, mills, riverviews, snowy landscapes in the Symbolist, Intimist, Post-Impressionist style and in some paintings Art Nouveau elements. De Saedeleer lived from November 1895 to October 1898 in Lissewege and from 1898 to 1908 in Sint-Martens-Latem. The river Lys (Leie) bight there in the subjet of some of his paintings. Then he moved to Etikhove, where an artist colony with him as the central figure was located. Valerius De Saedeleer died on 16 September in 1941 in Leupegem - Work in Museum: Brussel, Antwerpen, Gent, Aalst Deinze, Deurle.”  

Winter In Flanders

Valerius De Saedeleer 

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From Wiki:  Valerius De Saedeleer (1867 - 1941)    The artist Valerius De Saedeleer was born on August 4 in the Belgian city of Aalst in 1867.De Saedeleer received his first artistic training at the Gent Academy of Fine Arts of Theodore Joseph Canneel (1817-1892). He mainly painted the river Lys (Leie) and the Flemish Ardennes and was one of the major figures of the first group of the Latem School. Painter, draughtsman, etcher of landscapes, mills, riverviews, snowy landscapes in the Symbolist, Intimist, Post-Impressionist style and in some paintings Art Nouveau elements. De Saedeleer lived from November 1895 to October 1898 in Lissewege and from 1898 to 1908 in Sint-Martens-Latem. The river Lys (Leie) bight there in the subjet of some of his paintings. Then he moved to Etikhove, where an artist colony with him as the central figure was located. Valerius De Saedeleer died on 16 September in 1941 in Leupegem - Work in Museum: Brussel, Antwerpen, Gent, Aalst Deinze, Deurle.”  

 Winter Landscape near Aberystwyth (mubi.com)
Valerius De Saedeleer 

 Winter Landscape near Aberystwyth (mubi.com)

Valerius De Saedeleer 

Mountains in Cardiganshire, 1915–20, National Museum Wales
Valerius De Saedeleer 

Mountains in Cardiganshire, 1915–20, National Museum Wales

Valerius De Saedeleer 

Landscape, 1914–1918, The National Library of Wales
 Valerius de Saedeleer, 

Landscape, 1914–1918, The National Library of Wales

 Valerius de Saedeleer, 

Printemps,  1938, The National Trust for Scotland
Valerius de Saedeleer

Printemps,  1938, The National Trust for Scotland

Valerius de Saedeleer




Christian Hopkins HERE

Christian Hopkins HERE

artemisvoice:

Above:  Miles Davis - Flamenco Sketches (Alternate Take)

Dashboard click box below for:  Miles Davis - Flamenco Sketches (via: youtube | PerryCoxPF93)

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The Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl.
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~Oscar Wilde, from:  The Nightingale and the Rose 
Image:  Sol and Mani, 1909 - John Charles Dollman 

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The Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl.

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~Oscar Wilde, from:  The Nightingale and the Rose 

Image:  Sol and Mani, 1909 - John Charles Dollman 

artemisdreaming:
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A Teller of Tales
From:  The Celtic Twilight, by William Butler Yeats
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MANY of the tales in this book were told me by one Paddy Flynn, a little bright-eyed old man, who lived in a leaky and one-roomed cabin in the village of Ballisodare, which is, he was wont to say, ‘the most gentle’—whereby he meant faery—‘place in the whole of County Sligo.’ Others hold it, however, but second to Drumcliff and Drumahair. The first time I saw him he was cooking mushrooms for himself; the next time he was asleep under a hedge, smiling in his sleep. He was indeed always cheerful, though I thought I could see in his eyes (swift as the eyes of a rabbit, when they peered out of their wrinkled holes) a melancholy which was well-nigh a portion of their joy; the visionary melancholy of purely instinctive natures and of all animals.
And yet there was much in his life to depress him, for in the triple solitude of age, eccentricity, and deafness, he went about much pestered by children. It was for this very reason perhaps that he ever recommended mirth and hopefulness. He was fond, for instance, of telling how Collumcille cheered up his mother. ‘How are you to-day, mother?’ said the saint. ‘Worse,’ replied the mother. ‘May you be worse to-morrow,’ said the saint. The next day Collumcille came again, and exactly the same conversation took place, but the third day the mother said, ‘Better, thank God.’ And the saint replied, ‘May you be better to-morrow.’ He was fond too of telling how the Judge smiles at the last day alike when he rewards the good and condemns the lost to unceasing flames. He had many strange sights to keep him cheerful or to make him sad. I asked him had he ever seen the faeries, and got the reply, ‘Am I not annoyed with them?’ I asked too if he had ever seen the banshee. ‘I have seen it,’ he said, ‘down there by the water, batting the river with its hands.’
I have copied this account of Paddy Flynn, with a few verbal alterations, from a note-book which I almost filled with his tales and sayings, shortly after seeing him. I look now at the note-book regretfully, for the blank pages at the end will never be filled up. Paddy Flynn is dead; a friend of mine gave him a large bottle of whiskey, and though a sober man at most times, the sight of so much liquor filled him with a great enthusiasm, and he lived upon it for some days and then died. His body, worn out with old age and hard times, could not bear the drink as in his young days. He was a great teller of tales, and unlike our common romancers, knew how to empty heaven, hell, and purgatory, faeryland and earth, to people his stories. He did not live in a shrunken world, but knew of no less ample circumstance than did Homer himself. Perhaps the Gaelic people shall by his like bring back again the ancient simplicity and amplitude of imagination. What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident? And are there not moods which need heaven, hell, purgatory, and faeryland for their expression, no less than this dilapidated earth? Nay, are there not moods which shall find no expression unless there be men who dare to mix heaven, hell, purgatory, and faeryland together, or even to set the heads of beasts to the bodies of men, or to thrust the souls of men into the heart of rocks? Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet. 
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Artemis:  Yeats.  :)  Reblog

artemisdreaming:

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A Teller of Tales

From:  The Celtic Twilight, by William Butler Yeats

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MANY of the tales in this book were told me by one Paddy Flynn, a little bright-eyed old man, who lived in a leaky and one-roomed cabin in the village of Ballisodare, which is, he was wont to say, ‘the most gentle’—whereby he meant faery—‘place in the whole of County Sligo.’ Others hold it, however, but second to Drumcliff and Drumahair. The first time I saw him he was cooking mushrooms for himself; the next time he was asleep under a hedge, smiling in his sleep. He was indeed always cheerful, though I thought I could see in his eyes (swift as the eyes of a rabbit, when they peered out of their wrinkled holes) a melancholy which was well-nigh a portion of their joy; the visionary melancholy of purely instinctive natures and of all animals.

And yet there was much in his life to depress him, for in the triple solitude of age, eccentricity, and deafness, he went about much pestered by children. It was for this very reason perhaps that he ever recommended mirth and hopefulness. He was fond, for instance, of telling how Collumcille cheered up his mother. ‘How are you to-day, mother?’ said the saint. ‘Worse,’ replied the mother. ‘May you be worse to-morrow,’ said the saint. The next day Collumcille came again, and exactly the same conversation took place, but the third day the mother said, ‘Better, thank God.’ And the saint replied, ‘May you be better to-morrow.’ He was fond too of telling how the Judge smiles at the last day alike when he rewards the good and condemns the lost to unceasing flames. He had many strange sights to keep him cheerful or to make him sad. I asked him had he ever seen the faeries, and got the reply, ‘Am I not annoyed with them?’ I asked too if he had ever seen the banshee. ‘I have seen it,’ he said, ‘down there by the water, batting the river with its hands.’

I have copied this account of Paddy Flynn, with a few verbal alterations, from a note-book which I almost filled with his tales and sayings, shortly after seeing him. I look now at the note-book regretfully, for the blank pages at the end will never be filled up. Paddy Flynn is dead; a friend of mine gave him a large bottle of whiskey, and though a sober man at most times, the sight of so much liquor filled him with a great enthusiasm, and he lived upon it for some days and then died. His body, worn out with old age and hard times, could not bear the drink as in his young days. He was a great teller of tales, and unlike our common romancers, knew how to empty heaven, hell, and purgatory, faeryland and earth, to people his stories. He did not live in a shrunken world, but knew of no less ample circumstance than did Homer himself. Perhaps the Gaelic people shall by his like bring back again the ancient simplicity and amplitude of imagination. What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident? And are there not moods which need heaven, hell, purgatory, and faeryland for their expression, no less than this dilapidated earth? Nay, are there not moods which shall find no expression unless there be men who dare to mix heaven, hell, purgatory, and faeryland together, or even to set the heads of beasts to the bodies of men, or to thrust the souls of men into the heart of rocks? Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet. 

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Artemis:  Yeats.  :)  Reblog

Arrival scene from The Quiet Man

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig… Happy St. Paddy’s Day.  :)