The Painter Dreaming in the Scholar’s House
in memory of the painters Paul Klee
and Paul Terence Feeley
I
The painter’s eye follows relation out.
His work is not to paint the visible,
He says, it is to render visible.
Being a man, and not a god, he stands
Already in a world of sense, from which
He borrows, to begin with, mental things
Chiefly, the abstract elements of language:
The point, the line, the plane, the colors and
The geometric shapes. Of these he spins
Relation out, he weaves its fabric up
So that it speaks darkly, as music does
Singing the secret history of the mind.
And when in this the visible world appears,
As it does do, mountain, flower, cloud, and tree,
All haunted here and there with the human face,
It happens as by accident, although
The accident is of design. It is because
Language first rises from the speechless world
That the painterly intelligence
Can say correctly that he makes his world,
Not imitates the one before his eyes.
Hence the delightsome gardens, the dark shores,
The terrifying forests where nightfall
Enfolds a lost and tired traveler.
And hence the careless crowd deludes itself
By likening his hieroglyphic signs
And secret alphabets to the drawing of a child.
That likeness is significant the other side
Of what they see, for his simplicities
Are not the first ones, but the furthest ones,
Final refinements of his thought made visible.
He is the painter of the human mind
Finding and faithfully reflecting the mindfulness
That is in things, and not the things themselves.
For such a man, art is an act of faith:
Prayer the study of it, as Blake says,
And praise the practice; nor does he divide
Making from teaching, or from theory.
The three are one, and in his hours of art
There shines a happiness through darkest themes,
As though spirit and sense were not at odds.
II
The painter as an allegory of the mind
At genesis. He takes a burlap bag,
Tears it open and tacks it on a stretcher.
He paints it black because, as he has said,
Everything looks different on black.
Suppose the burlap bag to be the universe,
And black because its volume is the void
Before the stars were. At the painter’s hand
Volume becomes one-sidedly a surface,
And all his depths are on the face of it.
Against this flat abyss, this groundless ground
Of zero thickness stretched against the cold
Dark silence of the Absolutely Not,
Material worlds arise, the colored earths
And oil of plants that imitate the light.
They imitate the light that is in thought,
For the mind relates to thinking as the eye
Relates to light. Only because the world
Already is a language can the painter speak
According to his grammar of the ground.
It is archaic speech, that has not yet
Divided out its cadences in words;
It is a language for the oldest spells
About how some thoughts rose into the mind
While others, stranger still, sleep in the world.
So grows the garden green, the sun vermilion.
He sees the rose flame up and fade and fall
And be the same rose still, the radiant in red.
He paints his language, and his language is
The theory of what the painter thinks.
III
The painter’s eye attends to death and birth
Together, seeing a single energy
Momently manifest in every form,
As in the tree the growing of the tree
Exploding from the seed not more nor less
Than from the void condensing down and in,
Summoning sun and rain. He views the tree,
The great tree standing in the garden, say,
As thrusting downward its vast spread and weight,
Growing its green height from the dark watered earth,
And as suspended weightless in the sky,
Haled forth and held up by the hair of its head.
He follows through the flowing of the forms
From the divisions of the trunk out to
The veinings of the leaf, and the leaf’s fall.
His pencil meditates the many in the one
After the method in the confluence of rivers,
The running of ravines on mountainsides,
And in the deltas of the nerves; he sees
How things must be continuous with themselves
As with whole worlds that they themselves are not,
In order that they may be so transformed.
He stands where the eternity of thought
Opens upon perspective time and space;
He watches mind become incarnate; then
He paints the tree.
IV
These thoughts have chiefly been about the painter Klee,
About how he in our hard time might stand to us
Especially whose lives concern themselves with learning
As patron of the practical intelligence of art,
And thence as model, modest and humorous in sufferings,
For all research that follows spirit where it goes.
That there should be much goodness in the world,
Much kindness and intelligence, candor and charm,
And that it all goes down in the dust after a while,
This is a subject for the steadiest meditations
Of the heart and mind, as for the tears
That clarify the eye toward charity.
So may it be to all of us, that at some times
In this bad time when faith in study seems to fail,
And when impatience in the street and still despair at home
Divide the mind to rule it, there shall be some comfort come
From the remembrance of so deep and clear a life as his
Whom I have thought of, for the wholeness of his mind,
As the painter dreaming in the scholar’s house,
His dream an emblem to us of the life of thought,
The same dream that then flared before intelligence
When light first went forth looking for the eye.
poem by Howard Nemerov
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Related quotes
Painter Man
Went to college, studied arts
To be an artist make a start
Studied hard, gettin my degree
But no one seemed to notice me
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Tried cartoons and comic books
Dirty postcards could have done
Here was where the money laid
Classic art has had its day
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Did adverts for t.v.
Household shops and brands of tea
Labels all around the cans
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
La...la...la...la...la...la...
La...la...la...la...la...la...la...
Painter man, painter man
Who wanna be a painter man
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Canvas (Part 2)
We last left off with such the fright,
She paints—but gasp! —that's not quite right,
For every story has a twist,
And every painting is done on her wrist.
She paints with—sorry? —with little regard,
To what may bleed and what may scar,
But oh, she paints a lovely spar,
Despite the way that most things are.
Some find it funny and watch as she flees,
Others feel sick the moment they see,
Because a painter, she can't have much of a life,
If all of her painting is done with a knife.
This painter—in fact—she thinks she's alone,
Because of the burden of problems at home,
And then there's her mind, a nasty old place,
It's mostly the cause of the paintings she makes.
But one can be trapped, or one can be freed,
Though most painters like her find this hard to believe,
Yet this very painter broke free of her sadness,
And if she ever wonders 'why? ' she can look at her canvas.
poem by Dayna Mortimore
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The Painter (Ang Pintor)
The Painter...
He colored the sky
He colored the sea
and even the mountains
and the field.
The Painter...
He colored the roses
and even the birds
and animals
in the farm.
The Painter...
even my life...
He colored.
But the Painter,
I guess no one
have seen Him yet.
The Painter...
can anyone paint the colors
of His life?
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Many People Lives In Thy....
Many people lives in thy soul.
The painter paints the
Words, the singer sings
the lyrics, the philosopher,
dives deep into its thought.
Whom do you love most?
The philosopher within,
Drives your mind….
The poet, writes the feelings;
The painter gives color to it…
The singer putting life
To the lyric makes
More adorable……..
None can be left alone….
And all of them create
The sense of God…..
None can be left alone!
poem by Nilakshi Das
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Ramdas, Start Talking With New Language!
Ramdas, start Talking with New Language,
Talk with people and every life,
That language which can take world to new dimension,
Or world shine with beauty and freshness,
Be the one among builders of new world!
Language of love and acceptance,
language that comes from the
depth of the heart,
affectionate and humble,
language that is full of gratitude,
Free of doubts and fear, Language of smile and presence
of mind,
Mindfulness which uses silence
and words well balanced,
the world to new dimensions,
Make world Look like a new world in the light of wisdom!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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A painter told me that nobody could draw a tree without in some sort becoming a tree or draw a child by studying the outlines of its form merely . . . but by watching for a time his motions and plays, the painter enters into his nature and can then draw him at every attitude . . .
quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Seed And The Tree
Who can say for sure as to what came first: the seed or the tree?
If the seed came first where did it come from if not from the tree?
But then if the tree came first where did it come from except from a seed!
So then you'll have to re-ask again that question of the origin of the seed.
An endless circle with no logical conclusion soon appears
until one looks beyond the seed and the tree that it bears.
Although the seed comes from the tree and the tree from the seed
each one grows in the ground of mother Earth which both does feed.
The Earth is the womb of everything living and supports all we know
and then becomes the tomb back into which all forms one day must go.
The underlying essence of all nature is of consciousness-energy-intelligence
that includes and sustains all things despite our ever incessant belligerence.
Has anyone ever heard it said that God is in the form of the world
and so all within it carries a divine spark from which it has swirled.
God is the infinite eternal seed of all existence and can be experienced like this:
usually as an overwhelming love within us and as all power, knowledge and bliss.
So the seed and tree came from the Earth which itself has come from and exists in God
and to enquire where God has come from is useless if we haven't transcended this sod.
The limited mind of man has to merge into that unlimited universal mind of the Creator
only then can we know the original cause or final end of everything and of their Maker.
---------------------
Note:
This should remind one of the other similar paradox being that of 'the chicken and the egg'.
poem by George Krokos
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A Painter Passing Through
Once upon a time I was on my own
Once upon a time like youve never known
Once upon a time I would be impressed
Once upon a time my life would be obsessed
Once upon a time, once upon a day when
I was in my prime, once along the way
If you want to know my secret dont come runnin after me
For I am just a painter passing through in history
Yesterday is gone, yesterdays alright
Yesterday belongs in my dreams at night
Yesterday is swell, yesterday is great
Yesterday is strong, remembering can wait
Once upon a time, once upon a day when
I was in my prime, once along the way
If you want to know an answer I cant turn your life around
For I am just a painter passing through the underground
I was in my stride, always at my game
Here comes mister cool, along the walk of fame
I was in demand, always in control
The world was in my hands, my touch had turn to gold
Once upon a time, I was in a daze when
I was in my prime, once along the way
If you want to know my secret dont come runnin after me
For I am just a painter passing through in history
Now that I am old, let me rest a spell
All that I am told, I can never tell
Never in my life, never will it pass
I am still alone, remembering at last
Once upon a time, once upon a day when
I was in my prime, once along the way
If you want to know an answer I cant turn your life around
For I am just a painter passing through the underground
If you want to know my secret dont come runnin after me
For I am just a painter passing through in history
song performed by by Gordon Lightfoot
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Painter Named William
WILLIAM THE PAINTER
With a great smile that always shines,
he is a great painter, he paints art real fine.
William makes paintings with acrylic, oils and pastels,
he is a realistic painter, muralist and cartoonist as well.
I went to William’s art event,
it was at a church is where I went.
He did a mural on their wall,
it was huge, it wasn’t small.
William has a great eye for shape and form,
he is an original artist, not in the norm.
Now I just saw William today,
he was happy to see me and we talked away.
I will do a mural with him in Lake Worth soon,
we will paint a wall with some cartoons.
Looking forward William to see more of your art,
your art is unique, it sets you apart.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Builder Has Finished Build Well
Builder has finished build well
Only the painter to paint good
Wish he paints bright and peace
Builder has finished build well
Who the builder? who the painter?
Light your search to find rather
Builder has finished build well
Only the painter to paint good
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Life Is Like A Painting
Life is like a painter
Who paints a beautiful picture
Of a mother who showers her baby
Colors of water steadily
Flowing onto the child’s body
With his eyes wide open
Looking so vibrant
And hoping
He would not be drowned
By his mother
Only the painter
Could change all the factors
The mother let loose
And the baby goes dozing
Articulation of living perfectly
Events were created chromatically
Surpassing all anticipations
Exceeding all expectations
Blanketing all cloudy minds
To live with honor
Or to live with disgrace
In a life out of place
Exaggeration could be the word
But, as a painter
We paint our picture
The picture is premature
Success, failure and glory
Could be your history
Don’t call it quit
When you have succeeded
Look at the painting
The stroke of living
Is in your hands
poem by Sulaiman Mohd Yusof
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The painter should not paint what he sees, but what will be seen.
The Blue Swallows
Across the millstream below the bridge
Seven blue swallows divide the air
In shapes invisible and evanescent,
Kaleidoscopic beyond the mind’s
Or memory’s power to keep them there.
“History is where tensions were,”
“Form is the diagram of forces.”
Thus, helplessly, there on the bridge,
While gazing down upon those birds—
How strange, to be above the birds!—
Thus helplessly the mind in its brain
Weaves up relation’s spindrift web,
Seeing the swallows’ tails as nibs
Dipped in invisible ink, writing…
Poor mind, what would you have them write?
Some cabalistic history
Whose authorship you might ascribe
To God? to Nature? Ah, poor ghost,
You’ve capitalized your Self enough.
That villainous William of Occam
Cut out the feet from under that dream
Some seven centuries ago.
It’s taken that long for the mind
To waken, yawn and stretch, to see
With opened eyes emptied of speech
The real world where the spelling mind
Imposes with its grammar book
Unreal relations on the blue
Swallows. Perhaps when you will have
Fully awakened, I shall show you
A new thing: even the water
Flowing away beneath those birds
Will fail to reflect their flying forms,
And the eyes that see become as stones
Whence never tears shall fall again.
O swallows, swallows, poems are not
The point. Finding again the world,
That is the point, where loveliness
Adorns intelligible things
Because the mind’s eye lit the sun.
poem by Howard Nemerov
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Outside My Picture Window
It has been said that there is a world outside my picture window and
Beyond the trees I see everyday and the sky, sometimes overcast and
Other days, when the sun rises early- I can see the sky and have often wondered if
There exists another world within our universe- I know that
There exists a world inside of my mind and
My pupils are the windows into which
People would look if I were to venture outward?
Beyond the sky, and beyond the sun-
Beyond that world inside my mind,
I would never know where there exists a place for me-
Last night outside of my window
I could see the stars- stars mean different things to different people as
Does the sun, the trees and this whole world outside-
The world inside my mind revolves about
The sun that shines upon my own horizon and
As for this world outside, all I can do is look- and to
See a tree, perhaps a single cloud and the grass that grows-
I have shut my mind to the people who live beyond
The trees, clouds and the grass that I can see-
That window opens to the world inside of my thoughts-
I have just shut and pulled the curtain to discourage all intruders-
I am lying by my window in total darkness now as I place my hand over my eyes,
Shutting out reality and now I can see mountains, flowering trees and
A creek flowing in which I can see my reflection and
I am running upon the grass that grows beneath my feet-
I believe I heard music playing inside the fortress of my mind-
It has been said there is a world outside and I have pulled the curtain
To the window once opened to veracity-
Darkness has never looked as beautiful as I am safe here in my solitude-
Even when the stars are shining and the sky is such a magnificent sight to see-
No place is as exquisite as the creek that runs through my inner space and
The sun inside the world of my thoughts that shines upon my horizon?
The stars are far away and all that is real, though just outside my picture window
I perceive as too far away for me to reach- I would touch the stars and I could be a dove
That can lift my wings and fly away from all that threatens, but only inside my dreams-
Children sing songs and read fairy tales and they believe and I believe that
The sun shines light upon their worlds and
Someday their dreams shall blossom as has mine and shall become their homes-
Home is the safe place inside a person's mind, not within the madding crowd that
Exists outside my picture window- even if the stars are always there- and
That unique and special sun shall just keep on shining upon the world of my dreams….
poem by Claudia Krizay
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There are two things in the painter, the eye and the mind; each of them should aid the other.
quote by Paul Cezanne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All the stars of your sky - Original by Rabindranath Tagore
All the stars of your sky tonight
Have come in my mind to give light!
Now your world has crashed into me
Breaking into pieces of glee!
All blossoms of your all the groves
Now manifest on my body!
All the worlds’ happiness and bliss
Are to me what deep fragrance is!
Now they all have come in my mind
To praise you in temple of peace!
I am so deep in thought today
From this world I am far away!
Breath of the world plays in my mind
Wonderful music that can pray!
poem by Asif Andalib
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A Painted House Is Like A Poem.
In a way-A house painter is like a poet...
The house painter or average person just might not know it.
A lot of cleaning, sanding and preparation of the surface takes care and time...
Compositions, editing and thought polishes the rhyme.
When finished, they both are a work of art...
A lot of sweat and work is done by the artist's own part.
In the end, a finished polished piece...
Makes the artist, happy and at peace.
The work is finally done...
What hard work, finished-Now
feelings of enjoyed fun.
poem by Michael Gale
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Looking Dark
As the tree covered by his own bark,
The truest and invisible site of our character is 'dark'.
It also covers our life; more than light,
It remains with us even in bright; as shadow,
If it is not there than the life becomes a room without any door and window.
Born in dark, sleep in dark and
Death in dark; emotions also comes in dark......
That's true, we get the techniques to be sharp; only in dark.
What is dark?
It is the most hard mark of life,
Of its own type, and never get removed instead we sacrifice our life,
Because it is not worst or bad but it is the shed which always keep our self out from the worst,
Unless we become lost...
In this untidy world.
Dark has many kinds, it is what?
Answer revolves around the human's mind.
If it is dirty, on one could clean it.
Or if it is clean, everyone could seen; this dream.
Because when the dark becomes visible....
Than human its self got the power of double.....
So please try to see your own dark......
poem by Prateek Khard
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A Painter In You!
who has painted your picture in my thoughts,
without a brush, the paints and the pallet,
not even sketched using a pencil and a knife,
the picture is perfect with the colors mixed,
your smiling is great with a thin line at the edges,
your eyes are wide open, sprinkling the cheerful messages,
every time the happy visuals of you pop out in the mind,
I couldn't have drawn such a beautiful portrait,
of you in my heart, who has done this painting?
You are the one who posed and painted on your own,
you are a great painter who can paint your pictures,
on everyone's heart whom you know, love and respect.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Tree Of Dreams
My mind is a tree of growing dreams
It seems like it produces more each day
But with every day that passes
There is also a forgotten one
When you add all the forgotten ones
you get a tree that is dry
A tree with many rings
but with one leaf
One green leaf that appears
every day but also dries up
when the next day comes
When a tree only has one leaf
no one really looks at it
It is a tree with no ambition
A tree with only one dream
No one wants a tree with one dream
especially if it is never fulfilled
poem by Cokbod Lodwogo
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