#alexander jowett

[atelier688]

Desert Island Dreamin (Alexander Jowett)

+ Moon Phases (Luke Pestl)

*from 'A Kind of Blue: the Solace of Open Spaces'

at Alison Milne Gallery, Toronto

[alexjowettart]

Distant Blues 2023

76x70" acrylic and paint pen on canvas over wood panel!

Alexander Jowett

[yama-bato]

Le Baptême de la Solitude (Saharan Song), Alexander Jowett

[hellohaters]

Alexander Jowett

[xjmlm]

Desert at the end of the Ocean

Alexander Jowett

oil, acrylic ink and stitching on raw linen

[topcat77]

Alexander Jowett

, “Poems to the Sea (Melting Sun Dreaming)”

[lnwolffeugene]

 Alexander Jowett | “Poems to the Sea (Melting Sun Dreaming)”

[indgoblue]

(via Saatchi Art: Atardecer (Japonisme) Painting by Alexander Jowett)

[rearte2]

Alexander Jowett - Le Baptème de la Solitude

[alexanderrybaknews]

Alexander Rybak on stage with his ex-girlfriend

Alexander Rybak on stage with his ex-girlfriend Ingrid Berg Mehus at the Christmas concert Stille Natt Hellige Natt

Alexander Rybak on stage with his ex-girlfriend This year it, seems that the Christmas concerts can go ahead with sold out churches. Alexander Rybak is among those who will go on a Christmas tour together with the ex-girlfriend that made him world famous: Ingrid Berg Mehus. Source: db.no, publisert 26.12.21. Text: Kjetil Stoveland. Translated by Jorunn Ekre, revision by Anni Jowett. (more…)

[antigonick]

What are some of your favourite inspiring or awe filling quotes from classic Greek and Latin literature?

I don’t know if they’re inspiring or awe-filling, but here are some excerpts (obviously translated in English) that I love and that really made me… think. Experience? Stop in my tracks.Poetry, theatre and Carson are my thing. It shows in the list. 

I am nothing but words,     just a shape            of dreams or night.(Euripides, Herakles —transl. Anne Carson)

Although they areonly breath, wordswhich I commandare immortal(Sappho, Fragments —transl. Mary Barnard)

I dream of riverswith a hundred mouthsand mountainswhere the leaves turn over like silver fire.(Euripides, Bakkhai —transl. Anne Carson)

when shall I                                 lift my throat                                       to the dewy air,                                                             like a fawn                                                             skylarking                                                    in the                                                    green joy of the meadow—                                        she runs                                                    free                                                           from the hunt and the hunter,                                        she leaps                                                   over the net                                                            as he cries up his dogs                                    with storms                                    in her feet                                    she                                                sprints                                    the plain,                                                           races                           the river                                       flies                                               down                                                       to the shadows that deepen the trees,                                                                                                           overjoyed!                                                                           at the sheer absence of men.(Euripides, Bakkhai —transl. Anne Carson)

Why are you so in love withthings unbearable?(Sophokles, Elektra —transl. Anne Carson)

—and Geryon drooped his neck to one side, like a poppy which spoiling its tender beauty suddenly sheds its petals—(Stesichoros, Geryoneis XIV —transl. David Campbell)

If you eat my heart, you swallow my pain.(Euripides, Medea —transl. Michael Collier)

I ask this one thing: let me go mad in my own way.(Sophokles, Elektra —transl. Anne Carson)

What howl shall I howl?(Euripides, Hekabe —transl. Anne Carson)

And when one of us meets our other half, we are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out of the other’s sight even for a moment. We pass our whole lives together, desiring that we should be melted into one, to spend our lives as one person instead of two, and so that after our death there will be one departed soul instead of two; this is the very expression of our ancient need. And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called Love.(Plato, Symposium —transl. Benjamin Jowett)

This night is nowhalf-gone; youthgoes; I amin bed alone(Sappho, Fragments —transl. Mary Barnard)

Look thecup of my pain is already poured                            out why                            did you bring me                                       here was                                       it for this                                       was it for this                          was it for—(Aiskhylos, Agamemnon —transl. Anne Carson)

you mayblame Aphroditesoft as she isshe has almostkilled me withlove for that boy(Sappho, Fragments —transl. Mary Barnard)

At length he sinks in the soft arms of sleep.When lo! the shade, before his closing eyes,Of sad Patroclus rose, or seem’d to rise:In the same robe he living wore, he came:In stature, voice, and pleasing look, the same.The form familiar hover’d o'er his head,“And sleeps Achilles? (thus the phantom said:)Sleeps my Achilles, his Patroclus dead?Living, I seem’d his dearest, tenderest care,But now forgot, I wander in the air.Let my pale corse the rites of burial know,And give me entrance in the realms below:Till then the spirit finds no resting–place,But here and there the unbodied spectres chaseThe vagrant dead around the dark abode,Forbid to cross the irremeable flood.Now give thy hand; for to the farther shoreWhen once we pass, the soul returns no more:When once the last funereal flames ascend,No more shall meet Achilles and his friend;No more our thoughts to those we loved make known;Or quit the dearest, to converse alone.Me fate has sever’d from the sons of earth,The fate fore–doom’d that waited from my birth:Thee too it waits; before the Trojan wallEven great and godlike thou art doom’d to fall.Hear then; and as in fate and love we join,Ah suffer that my bones may rest with thine!Together have we lived; together bred,One house received us, and one table fed;That golden urn, thy goddess–mother gave,May mix our ashes in one common grave.”

“And is it thou? (he answers) To my sightOnce more return'st thou from the realms of night?O more than brother! Think each office paid,Whate'er can rest a discontented shade;But grant one last embrace, unhappy boy!Afford at least that melancholy joy.”

He said, and with his longing arms essay’dIn vain to grasp the visionary shade!Like a thin smoke he sees the spirit fly,And hears a feeble, lamentable cry.(Homer, The Iliad (Book XXIII) —transl. Alexander Pope (or any other, really))

[atelier688]

Desert Moon (Alexander Jowett) + Brink One (Luke Pestl)

from 'A Kind of Blue: the Solace of Open Spaces'

at Alison Milne Gallery, Toronto

[alexjowettart]

Desert Island Dreaming

58x48" paint, stiching and vintage indigo cloth on jute

w/t ceramics by Luke Pestl

Alexander Jowett

[yama-bato]

Minuit Méditerranée, Alexander Jowett, Oil, Ink, Stitching and Indigo Cloth on Raw Linen

https://www.alisonmilne.com/gallery/artists/alexander-jowett

[s0irenic]

Bound to You #3  -  Alexander Jowett

[lifestylesea]

Thucydides alas

Thucydides, alas! is not like Herodotus, easy to read and simple in his thought and language. His only, and very moderate, volume (a single copy of the Times newspaper contains as many words) is very close reading: crammed with profound thought, epigrammatic, intricate, obscure, and most peculiar in the turn of conglomerate phrase. But in the masterly translation of Dr. Jowett, and with the paraphrase and illustrations in the corresponding part of Grote’s History of Greece, he may be read without difficulty by every serious reader. All at least should know his resplendent picture of Pericles, and the Periclean ideal of Athens, an ideal as usual only reached by a few exalted spirits, and by them, but for a moment of glowing inspiration— an ideal of which we have the grotesque obverse in the wild comedies of Aristophanes.

All too should know the story of Cleon and of Alcibiades, the terrible scene of the plague at Athens, and the ghastly insurrection at Corcyra, and perhaps the most stirring of all, the overthrow of Athens in the port of Syracuse. I can remember how, when I read that within sight of the heights of Epipolae and the fountain of Arethusa, it seemed as if the bay around me still rang with the shout of triumph and the wail of the defeated host. It is surely the most dramatic page, yet one of the simplest and most severely impartial and exact, in the whole range of historical literature.

For the remainder of Greek history after the defeat and decline of Athens we have no contemporary authorities of any value, except the Memoirs of Xenophon; and for the marvellous career of Alexander, the best is Arrian, who at least had access to the works of eye-witnesses. And thus when we lose the light of Thucydides and Xenophon, we must trust to Plutarch and the later compilers, who had materials that are lost to the modern world.

Between Thucydides and Xenophon

Between Thucydides and Xenophon the analogy is strange, and the contrast even more strange. Both were Athenians, saturated with Attic culture, both exiles, both unsparing critics of the democracy of their native republic; but the first stood resolute in his proud philosophic neutrality, whilst cherishing the ideal of the country he had lost; the other became a renegade in the Greek fashion, the citizen of his country’s natural enemy, and alienated from his own by temperament, in sympathy, and in habits private tour istanbul.

When these Athenian philosophers fail us, we had better rely on Curtius and Grote. Both have their great and special merits. And if the twelve volumes of Grote are beyond the range of the ordinary reader with their mountains of detail and microscopic exaggeration of minute incidents and insignificant beings, Curtius in less than a third of the bulk has covered nearly the same ground with a more philosophic conception. Strictly speaking, there is not, and cannot be, a history of Greece. Greece is scattered broadcast over South-eastern Europe and Northwestern Asia. Greece was not so much a nation as a race, a movement, a language, a school of thought and art. And thus it comes that any history of Greece is utterly inadequate without such books as Muller’s or MahafTy’s Literature of Ancient Greece, Winckelmann’s History of Ancient Art, Fustel de Coulanges’ Citi Antique, and Mahaffy’s Social Life in Greece and Greek Life and Thought, or John Addington Symonds’ delightful essays on Greek Poets and the scenery of Greece.