#le reve

[lerevemusic]

Recording of the album Le Rêve

[mythical-art]

Illustration from 'Le Reve' by Emile Zola (1840-1902) c.1888 by Carlos Schwabe

[mysterious-secret-garden]

Carlos Schwabe - Illustration from 'Le Reve' (The dream) by Emile Zola, c. 1888.

[laurapetrie]

What I would like above all would be to marry a prince—and what I wish still further is, that this prince of mine should love me to distraction.

Emile Zola, Le Rêve (1888)

[mattbrier]

Lo Marie - Le Reve

A new live video from Lo Marie for the title track of the album Le Reve. This was recorded live 05/20/22.

Lo Marie – Le Reve was originally published on Idiosyncratic Transmissions

[gravity-rainbow]

Illustation from Le Reve by Carlos Schwabe

[skirtmag]

[bonheurecoutetoncoeur]

Attrape rêve ✨

[durruti23]

Henri Rousseau - Le Rêve (The Dream) (1910)

Inscription pour La Rêve

Yadwigha dans un beau rêve

S'étant endormie doucement

Entendait les sons d'une musette

Dont jouait un charmeur bien pensant.

Pendant que la lune reflète

Sur les fleuves [or fleurs], les arbres verdoyants,

Les fauves serpents prêtent l'oreille

Aux airs gais de l'instrument.

Yadwigha in a beautiful dream

Having fallen gently to sleep

Heard the sounds of a reed instrument

Played by a well-intentioned [snake] charmer.

As the moon reflected

On the rivers [or flowers], the verdant trees,

The wild snakes lend an ear

To the joyous tunes of the instrument.

 https://www.moma.org

"The picture radiates beauty, that is indisputable”, Guillaume Apollinaire 

[haybug1]

Wine of the Day: Bubbles for Daph!!! Domaine Carneros Le Reve Blancs de Blancs

Wine of the Day: Bubbles for Daph!!! Domaine Carneros Le Reve Blancs de Blancs

Happy Birthday to my fabulous sister filled with sparkles and light, Daphne! Everything about Daph is glitter and joy, making today the perfect day to pop some bubbles. Bubbles have been on my mind of late, as they are the way to toast the season, with one of mine and my sister’s favorites rising to the top, Domaine Carneros Le Reve Blanc de Blancs ($120). Crafted from sustainably grown, 100%…

[pafrany]

Le Rêve (The Dream) - the last painting by Henri Rousseau

[arinewman7]

Le reve

Tsuguharu Foujita

lithograph, 1947

[sweepseven]

[tchistorygal]

Becky B's Bright Squares: Spotlights On Dreams

Becky B’s Bright Squares: Spotlights On Dreams

#BrightSquare – Day 9 “As usual for a Squares Challenge month I will be sharing squares daily, and I would love it if you did the same. However if daily sounds too daunting, don’t worry. It is fine to join us weekly or even just pop in occasionally with your squares. The frequency of your squares depends on you and also your blog. All I ask is that your image has 4 equal sides, and that it…

[retropopcult]

Pablo Picasso, Le rêve (The dream), 1932

[ysengrinnn]

Le Rêve, 1932

January, 1932. My muse has been strangely absent. I hold a small fear that she will not return again after her last exodus. I am eras of artworks into my career, toes dipped into the new decade, pre-war. I am famous; my name is heavy and rich. People love my art and love me by association. When I am interviewed, they pick my brain: where do you get your inspiration? They want witty one liners, bon mot, what I am known for. But in truth, she is the crowd pleaser. They see my art and search for meaning. They think they know me, but I wonder, how can they know the artist if they don’t know his muse? So I will tell you now.

Fleeting, coy, my muse flits between bodies. It is inexplicable, the way she takes up space. She steals the forms of different women, but I always know what to look for, all the telltale signs. I find her again; I always do.

Marie-Thérèse Walter. Seventeen when I meet her, twenty-something when she hosts my muse. Fair haired, soft-bodied, all but asking to be painted. An ingénue, a possibility. I see her and in an instant I am dreaming of her in primaries. Her, with her head aslant, and her blue eyes half-lidded. The curvature of her white flesh, soft at the thigh. A straight nose - how I love her nose - and her thin brows. Her bobbed hair, grain-colored. I long to break her down into shapes and colors and lines, simplify her into oil and canvas. Mi musa. 

This girl - my muse - is easy to persuade. First, I show her how to live in color. Here, I turn her hands over, this is where we grasp our shadows by their tails. I show her my own hands, where we match each other vein for vein. I show her where to look for reds and blues. These threads - our lifelines - I declare, imitate the color of the sky. We peruse La Galleria and I walk close enough to let proximity do its work. My blood sings; she is close enough to smell. I study her profile: the slope of her nose in a sideways glance, the contours of her thin shoulder. I know that as I study her, she weighs the currency of my name, of my reputation. My art. 

At last, when I ask her to model for me, I know she cannot refuse.

+

We are in my studio. I smell oil and hear the cold rustle of canvas. She comes alive in the unregistered hours of the evening, when our time is our own. Once again, I relish the sight of my muse, offering me tastes of inspiration. In this form, she is still ingrained with the habits of youth: wonder lighting her eyes, an easy smile. Siting before me in a red armchair, she is relaxed, still warm. I will paint her many times on this chair. As her head drifts to her shoulder, I feel such overwhelming love at her innocence, at the curve of her sweet lip.

I may be thirty years this girl's senior, but I recognize that we are two beings in the primes of her life. At present, this is barter, mutualism between an artist and his muse. In these unholy hours, I make her feel ripe, and she makes me feel young. When she models, she is lewd, unashamed. She lets the white slip hang lower from her shoulder and dissolves into shapes; an unearthed breast, white and round as the full-moon, the beads around her neck precipitating like rain droplets. She exists in a medium of want and desire; in my studio, that can be captured. I decide that tonight I will create a masterpiece. 

I paint. Murmuring, she tells me of when she used to sneak out under her parents’ noses, a childhood spent with daisy chains webbed between her fingers like cat’s cradle. She describes the trumpet petals splintered from the bud, the sap residue from punctured stems under her nails. She tells me she feels that now, the concurrent feelings of something so incredibly childish and so inexorably adult. An echo of danger, ethereal and clandestine. Her words are white noise; I half listen, engrossed in my work. In one moment of tension when our eyes meet above the canvas, she asks me coyly, where do you get your inspiration?

What do I say? She is dreamlike. Our moments together are fleeting; I slow my brush-strokes. We wring time’s fabric between our hands for more minutes to burn together. I tell her, “it is because I love easy; that is why I am so good.” And I do. I treasure the minutes of me and my muse, a dream in 1932.