The Gallery Owner
The Gallery Owner
He had been to the doctors
nothing could be done, they are
not magicians and he had
a painting exhibition at his
gallery tonight.
Sat in his chair leaning left,
less pain that way, some thought
he had had too much to drink.
In the night he was saved
from further agony,
a sudden heart attack.
Many people came to his
funereal, a lyrical lady singer
sang about love and loss;
there were tears;
...and then the silence began.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Related quotes
Travellers gallery
Travellers gallery
~
welcome to the travellers gallery
the windows frame a world
from water coloured rivers
to pastel forests and fields
sketched out towns spread out
between charcoal cities
nameless people, faces
all passing in a hurry
the travellers gallery presents
a life in motion exhibition
all in natural hue colour
by bus, train or car
the landscape and portraits
become ingrained in memory
welcome to the travellers gallery
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Gallery
When I first saw your gallery
I liked the ones of ladies
Then you began to hang up me
You studied to portray me
In ice and greens
And old blue jeans
And naked in the roses
Then you got into funny scenes
That all your work discloses
Lady, dont love me now I am dead
I am a saint, turn down your bed
I have no heart, thats what you said
You said, I can be cruel
But let me be gentle with you
Somewhere in a magazine
I found a page about you
I see that now its josephine
Who cannot be without you
I keep your house in fit repair
I dust the portraits daily
Your mail comes here from everywhere
The writing looks like ladies
Lady, please love me now, I am dead
I am a saint, turn down your bed
I have no heart, thats what you said
You said, I can be cruel
But let me be gentle with you
I gave you all my pretty years
Then we began to weather
And I was left to winter here
While you went west for pleasure
And now youre flying bock this way
Like some lost homing pigeon
Theyve monitored your brain, you say
And changed you with religion
Lady, please love me now I was dead
I am no saint, turn down your bed
Lady, have you no heart, thats what you said
Well, I can be cruel
But let me be gentle with you
When I first saw your gallery
I liked the ones of ladies
But now their faces follow me
And all their eyes look shady
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The gallery of my heart
The gallery of my heart
~
Like a portrait hung
In the gallery of my heart
A girl of undoubted beauty
Breathtaking and full of wonder
Holds my gaze completely
I find my words flowing
In a river of adoration
I dedicate her my soul
There is a girl of beauty
Beyond which none compare
Painted to a memory
In the gallery of my heart
The softness of her eyes
A warmth to her lips
Fair skin and cascading hair
What love may imagine
When looking upon
A girl in portrait hung
In the gallery of my heart
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Maryanne Webber Gallery
Maryanne Webber Gallery is on Lurcerne Ave.
featuring fine American crafts, one of a kind jewelry and art glass.
Her gallery represents Florida artists and artists from around the USA,
she has been open since 1990 and is very successful till this day.
Her gallery also has metal sculptures, hand silks and wearable art,
her gallery represents Joan Edelstein, her Arts & Passion Scarf.
She also has sculptures made of clay, one of a kind and handmade.
Her gallery displays original Blue Vase of Elodie Holmes,
a beautiful sculptured piece to cherish in your home.
Also you will find a one of a kind Zip 20 Clock, by David Scherer Designs.
Home accessories that I find colorful and bright,
is hand painted Tropical Wine Glasses by Leslie Millar to drink wine at night.
Maryanne’s gallery is open Monday through Friday,10 till 5 and Saturday 10 to 4,
make sure you stop by and see what unique gifts her gallery has in store.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on November 12,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Maryanne Webber Gallery
Maryanne Webber Gallery is on Lurcerne Ave.
featuring fine American crafts, one of a kind jewelry and art glass.
Her gallery represents Florida artists and artists from around the USA,
she has been open since 1990 and is very successful till this day.
Her gallery also has metal sculptures, hand silks and wearable art,
her gallery represents Joan Edelstein, her Arts & Passion Scarf.
She also has sculptures made of clay, one of a kind and handmade.
Her gallery displays original Blue Vase of Elodie Holmes,
a beautiful sculptured piece to cherish in your home.
Also you will find a one of a kind Zip 20 Clock, by David Scherer Designs.
Home accessories that I find colorful and bright,
is hand painted Tropical Wine Glasses by Leslie Millar to drink wine at night.
Maryanne’s gallery is open Monday through Friday,10 till 5 and Saturday 10 to 4,
make sure you stop by and see what unique gifts her gallery has in store.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on November 12,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Gagosian Gallery
gagasian gallery
gage gallery
age gallery
age galley
age alley
age lye
alley
lye
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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At 18 I began painting steadily fulltime and at age 20 had my first New York show at the Macbeth Gallery.
quote by Andrew Wyeth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I love the gallery, the arena of representation. It's a commercial world, and morality is based generally around economics, and that's taking place in the art gallery.
quote by Jeff Koons
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Gallery
I fell in love in the gallery
where every painting
had a story still to tell
the portraits of nature
every hue of wild beauty
caught my soul breathless
I wandered through worlds
those places of such scenery
which caught, held my eye
I imagined the feel of the air
the scent which filled each picture
touching my skin, filling my nose
my eyes wide open feasted upon
such beauty the likes of which
I had hardly every seen
nether less thought to imagine
I walked almost listless
in no hurry to leave this place
I fell in love in the gallery
where portraits of nature
told me their story
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Church is not a gallery for the exhibition of eminent Christians, but a school for the education of imperfect ones.
quote by Henry Ward Beecher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It's one of his radical paintings
They refused to take his painting for the Exhibition.
The reason they explained; ' It's a blank canvas.'
Then the painter argued; ' It's titled as Blank life.'
'At least there should be a brush mark then we can accept.' the director of the Art Gallery said.
With his ball point pen he kept a dot in the middle of the canvas
And added to the title as 'Full stop to the blank life.'
The director was really appreciated and taken the painting back.
* To my friend Denis.Joe who threw a torch into my little dark World and I saw this strange sign shines in the darkness.
'If the door is locked, someone is inside? '
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Why I Am Not A Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
poem by Frank O'Hara
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Themes
themes should be universal they say.
to talk of the cruellest month.
excellent.
cities, monuments, flowers.
irreproachable.
a painting of a boy falling out of
the sky, hung in a belgian gallery
or epic sung by a blind bard.
ideal.
bad poets being fortunate, no muse to be invoked.
poems sprout, wild weeds in walled garden.
broken heart tears betrayal
pain shame fear despair bewilderment.
these themes can be arranged according to size
shape and colour in the bowl of the day.
Tonight's The Night
Tonight’s the night,
I said in my head,
I don’t care anymore,
I wish I was dead.
Tonight’s the night,
I thought deep inside,
I haven’t the energy,
To keep trying to hide.
Tonight’s the night,
I said out loud,
So I took the pills;
Not feeling proud.
Tonight’s the night,
I thought for sure,
This pain won’t end,
There is no cure.
Tonight’s the night,
Or so I thought,
I hadn’t taken enough pills;
I was soon taught.
Tonight’s not the night,
I thought as I was sick,
I’ve achieved nothing,
I feel like a prick.
Tonight’s not the night,
I told my friend,
I can’t stand this nightmare,
Will it ever end?
Tonight’s not the night,
My friend said to me,
He’s over the moon,
But I just want to be free.
poem by Gemma Nolan
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Soul Paintings
enter hung gallery
my stunning exhibition
walk these displays
all these my paintings
open mouth heart soul
wide wider wider as
I breathe soul paintings
straight into mind fixation
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Which painting in the National Gallery would I save if there was a fire? The one nearest the door of course.
quote by George Bernard Shaw
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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In The Gallery
Harry made a bareback rider proud and free upon a horse
And a fine coalminer for the ncb that was
A fallen angel and jesus on the cross
A skating ballerina you should have seen her do the skaters waltz
Some people have got to paint and draw
Harry had to work iin clay and stone
Like the waves coming to the shore
It was in his blood and in his bones
Ignored by all the trendy boys in london and in leeds
He might as well have been making toys or strings of beads
He could not be in the gallery
And then you get an artist says he doesnt want to paint at all
He takes an empty canvas and sticks it on the wall
The birds of a feather all the phonies and all of the fakes
While the dealers they get together
And they decide who gets the breaks
And whos going to be in the gallery
No lies he wouldnt compromise
No junk no bits of string
And all the lies we subsidise
That just dont mean a thing
Ive got to say he passed away in obscurity
And now all the vultures are coming down from the tree
So hes going to be in the gallery
song performed by by Dire Straits
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stuck On The Lyrics Like I'm Stuck On You
You kill me...
You know you do
You kill me well
You rip my heart
Through depths of hell
I see the journals,
The logs,
And she misses you.
But not missing you all the same
She misses the feeling you give me
And I hate this feeling I get
Feeling like ever-prying,
Thought I let go the notions of potential failure
But I still think when you don't pick up
I still cry at night when you're all I think about
And nothing I forget
And the pain that rips through my bones like concrete through water
Is nothing compared to the pain of loss
Or the fear of the pain of loss
Or the pain of the fear of the pain of loss
And you won't get to see the tears I cry
So swallow me and spit me out
For hating you I blame myself
Then and there
I confess
I'll blame all this on my selfishness
Yet you love me
And that consumes me
And I will cut again
And do so willingly
Relationships that work are things that I can't comprehend
poem by Amanda Saveley
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Lust and pride at war.
The painting in the street is cheap.
I am averse.
The one in art gallery is costly.
I have no purse.
My bedroom is dry and empty.
21.04.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Thw Musical Lady
The Musical Lady
I knew of a pavement café where tables and chairs were painted
in different colours, this to lend ambience in an otherwise dreary
street. A young lady, a student at the music conservatorium, came
here for lunch and always insisted on sitting on the same chair,
a rosa one; she was pretty in stern way, long black dress, flat shoes,
plain long hair and big glasses, waiters were happy to oblige her.
This caused jalousie amongst other chairs that wanted her to sit on
them too. In the night they ganged up on the rosa one, upended it
and scratched badly. The owner thought it was the work of vandals,
put the damage chair in the store room, but when the musical lady
came she insisted to sit on her chair damaged or not. Other seats
felt bad realizing it was not the rosa’s fault but the idiosyncrasy of
the artist, so in the night the spruced up the rosa till it looked as new.
But now the pianist didn’t want it, not the same as before, she said
and sat on a yellow chair. Feeling a miffed the gleaming new looking
seat said to itself: “No big shake she had a narrow, cold bum anyway.”
poem by Oskar Hansen
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