Inspiration.

Kenneth Grahame's boyhood home, "The Mount", from which it is said he drew great inspiration for The Wind in the Willows ...

The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour. 

He was now in just the frame of mind that the tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. He saw clearly how plain and simple — how narrow, even — it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence. 

He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. 

But it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome.

Kenneth Grahame, from The Wind in the Willows

Anniversary.

Approaching the 30th anniversary of Northern Lights, the first in Sir Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials novels, The Independent visits Oxford to uncover the locations that gave rise to the stories of Lyra Silvertongue ...

In February 1355, two students started a brawl with the owner, because they were unhappy with the wine. It turned into a three-day riot that killed 90 people. 

Dance.

An overcast morning in July. A taste of ashes flies through the air; - an odor of sweating wood on the hearth, - dew-ret flowers, - devastation along the promenades, - the mist of the canals over the fields - why not incense and toys already?

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

The upland pond smokes continuously. What witch will rise against the white west sky? What violet frondescence fall?

While public funds evaporate in feasts of fraternity, a bell of rosy fire rings in the clouds.

Reviving a pleasant taste of India ink, a black powder rains on my vigil. I lower the jets of the chandelier, I throw myself on my bed, and turning my face towards the darkness, I see you, my daughters! my queens!

Arthur Rimbaud, from "Phrases"

Imagining.

Walker's Arms inspired me to go wondering about the East Banqueting House at Chipping Campden, imagining the combination of a banqueting hall and a library on that top level ...

In the seventeenth century, Sir Baptist’s guests would have retired to these houses for their "banquet" (or dessert course) at the end of the meal, to drink rare wines, eat dried fruit and sweetmeats and admire his domain. 

On the following morning, the sun darted his beams from over the hills through the low lattice window. I rose at an early hour, and looked out between the branches of eglantine which overhung the casement. To my surprise Scott was already up and forth, seated on a fragment of stone, and chatting with the workmen employed on the new building. I had supposed, after the time he had wasted upon me yesterday, he would be closely occupied this morning, but he appeared like a man of leisure, who had nothing to do but bask in the sunshine and amuse himself.

I soon dressed myself and joined him. He talked about his proposed plans of Abbotsford; happy would it have been for him could he have contented himself with his delightful little vine-covered cottage, and the simple, yet hearty and hospitable style, in which he lived at the time of my visit. The great pile of Abbotsford, with the huge expense it entailed upon him, of servants, retainers, guests, and baronial style, was a drain upon his purse, a tax upon his exertions, and a weight upon his mind, that finally crushed him.

As yet, however, all was in embryo and perspective, and Scott pleased himself with picturing out his future residence, as he would one of the fanciful creations of his own romances. "It was one of his air castles," he said, "which he was reducing to solid stone and mortar." About the place were strewed various morsels from the ruins of Melrose Abbey, which were to be incorporated in his mansion. He had already constructed out of similar materials a kind of Gothic shrine over a spring, and had surmounted it by a small stone cross.

Among the relics from the Abbey which lay scattered before us, was a most quaint and antique little lion, either of red stone, or painted red, which hit my fancy. I forgot whose cognizance it was; but I shall never forget the delightful observations concerning old Melrose to which it accidentally gave rise. The Abbey was evidently a pile that called up all Scott's poetic and romantic feelings; and one to which he was enthusiastically attached by the most fanciful and delightful of his early associations. He spoke of it, I may say, with affection. "There is no telling," said he, "what treasures are hid in that glorious old pile. It is a famous place for antiquarian plunder; there are such rich bits of old time sculpture for the architect, and old time story for the poet. There is as rare picking in it as a Stilton cheese, and in the same taste—the mouldier the better."

Washington Irving, from "Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey"

Happy Birthday, Vasari

Vasari, Self-Portrait, 1574

Inspiration demands the active cooperation of the intellect joined with enthusiasm, and it is under such conditions that marvelous conceptions, with all that is excellent and divine, come into being.  It has been seen that simple children, roughly brought up in the wilderness, have begun to draw by themselves, impelled by their own natural genius, instructed solely by the example of these beautiful paintings and sculptures of Nature. 

Giorgio Vasari, born on this day in 1511

Inspired.

The man who arrives at the doors of artistic creation with none of the madness of the Muses would be convinced that technical ability alone was enough to make an artist.  What that man creates by means of reason will pale before the art of inspired beings. 

Plato

Invite.

Pyle, The Fight on Lexington Common, April 19, 1775, 1898

Professor Kevin Gannon on the impossibilities of objective histories ...

Some of the most valuable conversations I’ve had with my students about history are when we talk about how do we as people, as complicated and full human beings, engage with history?

This idea in my writing—to say, “Here, I’m going to lay all my cards on the table”—has come out of classroom discussions that I’ve had with students, where we talk about these intensely personal, as well as political, issues like abolitionism, racism, mass incarceration.

Objectivity cannot be a clinical detachment. And we need to own the fact that we’re coming into this as people; we don’t come out of vacuums. Those powerful classroom conversations convinced me that opening a textbook with such honestly can be a really powerful way to invite readers in, to invite students in.

From his blog ...

[W]hether one is writing, teaching, or contemplating History, it comes down to a question of what “matters.” But the mistake so many make is to assume there is one unchanging answer to that question. We fail our discipline and our students if we claim that what has traditionally been deemed historically significant–has mattered–achieved that status by any sort of “objective” standard. We are better served to emancipate ourselves from the iron cage of Objectivity and see Historical Facts for what they really are. Rather than create some sort of postmodern relativist hellscape where anything goes, embracing this “truth”* about History lets us acknowledge the nature of our epistemology. Freed from having to hew to some arbitrary standard that has somehow been elevated above all the other arbitrary standards, we can study, teach, and interpret History in ways which–paradoxically–might just be the most objective that we can achieve.

Teachers must remember that it's not about them.  It's about exposing students to ideas and perspectives, challenging a student to think about the world beyond the end of his or her nose.

Working.

Don't wait for inspiration. It comes while one is working. 

Henri Matisse

Best.

Wyeth, N. C., Nathan Hale, 1922

I find the earliest years of my life are the source of my best inspiration. 

N. C. Wyeth

Decided.

From Ray Bradbury's Paris Review interview ...

INTERVIEWER

That’s the character who makes a brief appearance in Something Wicked This Way Comes, right? And you’ve often spoken of a real-life Mr. Electrico, though no scholar has ever been able to confirm his existence. The story has taken on a kind of mythic stature—the director of the Center for Ray Bradbury Studies calls the search for Mr. Electrico the “Holy Grail” of Bradbury scholarship.

BRADBURY

Yes, but he was a real man. That was his real name. Circuses and carnivals were always passing through Illinois during my childhood and I was in love with their mystery. One autumn weekend in 1932, when I was twelve years old, the Dill Brothers Combined Shows came to town. One of the performers was Mr. Electrico. He sat in an electric chair. A stagehand pulled a switch and he was charged with fifty thousand volts of pure electricity. Lightning flashed in his eyes and his hair stood on end.

The next day, I had to go the funeral of one of my favorite uncles. Driving back from the graveyard with my family, I looked down the hill toward the shoreline of Lake Michigan and I saw the tents and the flags of the carnival and I said to my father, Stop the car. He said, What do you mean? And I said, I have to get out. My father was furious with me. He expected me to stay with the family to mourn, but I got out of the car anyway and I ran down the hill toward the carnival.

It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I was running away from death, wasn’t I? I was running toward life. And there was Mr. Electrico sitting on the platform out in front of the carnival and I didn’t know what to say. I was scared of making a fool of myself. I had a magic trick in my pocket, one of those little ball-and-vase tricks—a little container that had a ball in it that you make disappear and reappear—and I got that out and asked, Can you show me how to do this? It was the right thing to do. It made a contact. He knew he was talking to a young magician. He took it, showed me how to do it, gave it back to me, then he looked at my face and said, Would you like to meet those people in that tent over there? Those strange people? And I said, Yes sir, I would. So he led me over there and he hit the tent with his cane and said, Clean up your language! Clean up your language! He took me in, and the first person I met was the illustrated man. Isn’t that wonderful? The Illustrated Man! He called himself the tattooed man, but I changed his name later for my book. I also met the strong man, the fat lady, the trapeze people, the dwarf, and the skeleton. They all became characters.

Mr. Electrico was a beautiful man, see, because he knew that he had a little weird kid there who was twelve years old and wanted lots of things. We walked along the shore of Lake Michigan and he treated me like a grown-up. I talked my big philosophies and he talked his little ones. Then we went out and sat on the dunes near the lake and all of a sudden he leaned over and said, I’m glad you’re back in my life. I said, What do you mean? I don’t know you. He said, You were my best friend outside of Paris in 1918. You were wounded in the Ardennes and you died in my arms there. I’m glad you’re back in the world. You have a different face, a different name, but the soul shining out of your face is the same as my friend. Welcome back.

Now why did he say that? Explain that to me, why? Maybe he had a dead son, maybe he had no sons, maybe he was lonely, maybe he was an ironical jokester. Who knows? It could be that he saw the intensity with which I live. Every once in a while at a book signing I see young boys and girls who are so full of fire that it shines out of their face and you pay more attention to that. Maybe that’s what attracted him.

When I left the carnival that day I stood by the carousel and I watched the horses running around and around to the music of “Beautiful Ohio,” and I cried. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I knew something important had happened to me that day because of Mr. Electrico. I felt changed. He gave me importance, immortality, a mystical gift. My life was turned around completely. It makes me cold all over to think about it, but I went home and within days I started to write. I’ve never stopped.

Seventy-seven years ago, and I’ve remembered it perfectly. I went back and saw him that night. He sat in the chair with his sword, they pulled the switch, and his hair stood up. He reached out with his sword and touched everyone in the front row, boys and girls, men and women, with the electricity that sizzled from the sword. When he came to me, he touched me on the brow, and on the nose, and on the chin, and he said to me, in a whisper, “Live forever.” And I decided to.

Inspiration.

van Gogh, Self-Portrait, 1889

Perhaps something will happen to me like the thing E. Delacroix speaks of – “I found painting when I had neither teeth nor breath left”, in this sense that my sad illness makes me work with a pent-up fury – very slowly – but from morning till night without respite – and – this is probably the secret – work for a long time and slowly. What do I know about it, but I think that I have one or two canvases on the go that aren’t too bad, first the reaper in the yellow wheat, and the portrait on a light background. This will be for the Vingtistes, if indeed they remember me when the time comes. Now, it would be absolutely the same to me, if not preferable, if they forget me.

Since I myself don’t forget the inspiration that I gain from giving free rein to my memories of certain Belgians. That’s the positive thing, and the rest is so secondary.

Vincent van Gogh, from a letter to his brother, Theo, Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, Thursday, 5 and Friday, 6 September 1889.

Above is the last portrait van Gogh ever painted of himself.

Inspiration.

Warhol, Halston at the Beach House, 1982

You can't put a budget on inspiration.

Halston

Thank you, Nora.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KING

The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was born on this day in 1929.

On October 26, 1967, Dr. King spoke to a group of students at Barratt Junior High School in Philadelphia ...  

Your life’s blueprint must be a commitment to the eternal principles of beauty, love, and justice. Don’t allow anybody to pull you so low as to make you hate them.  Don’t allow anybody to cause you to lose your self-respect to the point that you do not struggle for justice. You have a responsibility to seek to make life better for everybody. 

Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Happy Birthday, Tchaikovsky

Pyotr Tchaikovsky was born on this date in 1840.

There is no doubt that even the greatest musical geniuses have sometimes worked without inspiration. This guest does not always respond to the first invitation. We must always work, and a self-respecting artist must not fold his hands on the pretext that he is not in the mood. If we wait for the mood, without endeavoring to meet it half-way, we easily become indolent and apathetic. We must be patient, and believe that inspiration will come to those who can master their disinclination.

Pyotr Tchaikovsky

The Moscow State Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Pavel Kogan, performs the Waltz from Eugene Onegin ...

Learn.

Was this the horizon, at once ancient and unrealized, toward which to dream? Was an alternative psychic life of literary labor possible, one that was enabling, unanxious, less regarding of self? Was it wrong to want one? As with rich parables or figurative systems, the story Bloom tells about poetic imagination can be read in more than one direction. There’s an ambiguity that might be reclaimed if the theory isn’t allowed to calcify into a grand individualism (a calcification Bloom greatly aided). Because when you went to grasp for those great names, did you expect to contact something solid?

The modes of personhood respected by the rest of life are undermined in poetic making. A logic inhering in the material begins to suggest itself: the rudiments of soul and mind are already common property, the truth of one’s life is a tangle of known tropes. The terrain of imagination is hatched with backroads between private drives and collective form. In practice the poet toggles constantly between resisting and admitting the voices of others. Perhaps it becomes hard to know the difference. Extreme and contradictory instincts live in proximity: compared with what I love I am almost nothing; there is nothing that has ever been thought or said which does not in some respect belong to me, or I to it. To learn the voice’s capacity is to learn to inherit. What is true for a child is true, at a different depth, for the poet, who perhaps must remain a child of a kind.

CONNECT

Work.

Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration. The rest of us just get up and go to work.

Stephen King

Madness.

If a man comes to the door of poetry untouched by the madness of the Muses, believing that technique alone will make him a good poet, he and his sane compositions never reach perfection, but are utterly eclipsed by the performances of the inspired madman.

Socrates

Hang.

GRATITUDE to the UNKNOWN INSTRUCTORS

What they undertook to do

They brought to pass;

All things hang like a drop of dew

Upon a blade of grass.

W.B. Yeats

Sublime.

Unknown, Jimmy Buffett and Willie Nelson, 1975

I decided that it was not wisdom that enabled poets to write their poetry, but a kind of instinct or inspiration, such as you find in seers and prophets who deliver all their sublime messages without knowing in the least what they mean.

Socrates

Inspiration.

Doisneau, The Old District of Lille, 1951

“Genius,” Baudelaire observes, “is none other than childhood formulated with precision.” I believe that the great French décadent, who was writing here about the equally decadent English essayist Thomas De Quincey, author of Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, intended the word “genius” to be understood in this context as the “daimon,” which the ancient Greeks believed is in every man: his character, indeed his essence. If Baudelaire is correct, then in a sense childhood never ends, but exists in us not merely as a memory or complex of memories, but as an essential part of what we intrinsically are. Every artist knows the truth of this since, for the artist, childhood and the childhood conception of things is a deep source of what used to be called inspiration, if for no other reason than that it was as children that we first apprehended the world as mystery. The process of growing up is, sadly, a process of turning the mysterious into the mundane. We cease to be amazed by things— the sky, the turning of the seasons, love, other people — only because we have grown accustomed to them.

John Banville