Henry Fuseli: Milton Dictating to His Daughter (1794)

Gallery Notes:
This painting by Swiss artist Henry Fuseli depicts 17th-century English poet John Milton, who became blind in his 40s, dictating his epic poem Paradise Lost. His daughter transcribes his words while another woman listens intently as she sews. A forerunner of the Romantic Movement, Fuseli created drama through chromatic contrast. A cool light illuminates the rosy-cheeked women and casts deep shadows around Milton’s ghostly figure and face. Fuseli created this painting for his Milton Gallery, a self-run enterprise that showcased the artist’s Milton-inspired works. While this entrepreneurial venture failed commercially, it raised Fuseli’s prestige and visibility as an artist.


Given The Current Volume of Obvious Imperfections
One week each year, perhaps a few days longer, the Villa's yard takes on the Garden of Eden Scent. The apple blossom sweet of the two enormous ornamental crabapples, with the magenta one dominating, combine with the budding lilacs. When we returned from our exile four years ago this Spring, I planted five fresh lilac bushes along the back fence. They were healthy three-footers then. Now, they're topping seven feet and bursting with blossoms. They provide a sampling line where The Muse and I can sink our snouts deep into each bush's blossoms to experience the subtle differences between the various varieties. We added fish to our bubbling backyard pond this week, and I immediately felt the difference their presence brought. I suspect the neighborhood raccoons have already discovered this addition, as somebody tipped over the fountain pump on two successive nights. My lawnmower replacement for the one recalled as a potential fire hazard arrived just in time to counter the emerging lawn, and the carpenters completed installation of the front porch beadboard ceiling. I could proclaim that all's right with the world, but there's still a considerable lot that's not right yet. I feel reassured that this world can pull off a Springtime like this, even given the current volume of obvious imperfections.

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Weekly Writing Summary

This CHope Story finds me aching for a FreshStart. Too much information might prove much more toxic than not enough. When an adversary seems destined and determined to do himself in, there's no need to provide him an audience.

Corita Kent (Sister Mary Corita): fresh bread (1967) Inscriptions and Marks: Signed: l.r.: Corita (not assigned): Printed text reads: Fresh bread, a secret agent / A jug of wine a loaf of bread and WOW / What kind of a revolution would it be if all the people in the whole world would sit around in a circle and eat together? [heart shape] / What you seek in vain for half your life, one day you come full upon, all the family at dinner. Thoreau
"I prefer the quality only ignorance ever dispenses."
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This CHope Story finds me inhabiting a slice of my own little Heaven while the rest of the world seems determined to go to Hell. In my heaven, I use ancient and under-appreciated manual tools like my trusty old BowSaw.

Jack Gould: Untitled (two men sawing large logs) (c. 1950)
" … designed to preserve enthusiasm rather than undermine it."
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This CHope Story finds me discovering an excursion's purpose in a spanking new family name. What shall we call the Great-Grandmother? How about GigaMa?

Xiang Shengmoe: Crab-apple Blossom from a Flower Album of Ten Leaves (1656)
"May she fondly remember her great-grands."
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This CHope story tries to set a long-erroneous record straighter. The Road To Serfdom was never actually paved with excessive government regulation, but with capricious proclamations. Both monarchies and dictatorships rely upon creating and maintaining an inordinate number of serfs.

Jules Breton: The Song of the Lark (1884)
"Let us choose more wisely going forward after we finally impeach this bastard."
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This CHope Story, Presententions, finds me describing a world infected with whim. Him With The Non-existent Attention Span knows no reason. Chaos and cruelty appear to be his purpose.

Master of the Beheading of St. John the Baptist: Allegory: Combat of Animals in the Presence of Man with Shield (1515/20)
"Everything except the lilac garden seems twisted and broken."
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This CHope Story follows the hope and disappointment each technological improvement has brought. We hold Tech's promise immutable, and its delivery barely bearable.

Nan Lurie: Technological improvements (1937) —Works Progress Administration)
"We thrive exclusively on the promise of another paradigm shift …"
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I began this writing week by reaching the end of my patience with my focus on our incumbent's shenanigans, shifting my gaze to other activities and interests that might alternatively fill my days. I began with a piece I called FreshStart, deciding that I could occasionally avert my gaze without evil thoroughly overwhelming civilization. I reported on re-realizing a lesson my father taught me half a century ago: less effort sometimes produces more progress. My BowSaw strongly suggests so. I met my first GreatGranddaughter and designated her GreatGrandMother, The Muse, a GigaMa, unsurprisingly, a title she doesn't much care for. I offered a rebuttal of an old conservative allegory about what causes The Road To Serfdom. Current evidence suggests that the absence of government regulation can more effectively produce the effect than its presence. I had to invent a term to correctly classify the pretension I see our incumbent embodying, Presententions. The present tensions are palpable, sometimes overwhelming. I ended this writing week decomposing my relationship with technology. I upgraded my smartphone and immediately reduced my social media footprint as the iPhone moved away from the ideal of intuitive interface design. My new iPhone seems next to impossible to use! Thank you for following along!


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