Tuesday, December 12, 2017

Non-Famous 17th-century Paintings from the Rijksmuseum

Caesar van Everdingen
Pan and Syrinx
ca. 1637-40
oil on panel
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Moses van Uyttenbroeck
Bathing Nymph surprised by Satyr
ca. 1630-35
oil on panel
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

from Dunt: a poem for a dried up river

Very small and damaged and quite dry,
a Roman water nymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone


very eroded faded
her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down
a Roman water nymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone


exhausted         utterly worn down
a Roman water nymph made of bone
being the last known speaker of her language
she tried to summon a river out of limestone


little distant sound of dry grass         try again


a Roman water nymph made of bone
very endangered now
in a largely unintelligible monotone
she tries to summon a river out of limestone


little distant sound as of dry grass         try again

– Alice Oswald (2016, from Falling Awake, published by Norton)

Moses van Uyttenbroeck
Finding of Moses
ca. 1625-27
oil on panel
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Joachim von Sandrart
Odysseus and Nausicaa
ca. 1639
oil on canvas
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

attributed to Johann Carl Loth
Selene and Endymion
ca. 1660-80
oil on canvas
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

A Fig for Selene

Charlotte went walking in the park at evening
While the dusk hung there, windowed west with sun
And east with moon that overlooked the wall.

Said she:
What if the moon be ashes?
They say the moon is arid
Cinders of dead volcanoes.
What if her light be feigning
And gloze this brick I am treading
With rosy-silver mocking?
What if the dead be dead
And vanished altogether
And loveliness be but ashes?

Slowly Charlotte travelled the brick walk,
Cutting a rose-pale circle in the grass
That breathed upon her with a warm night-smell –
The multitudinous, the living grass.

Soon he will come to meet me –
(Quick blood halts and listens!)
Come like a big dark bird
Flown in from a bare bright world.
He will feather me soft with silence,
Nest me in with possession,
Scatter the ashen moonshine . . .
Blood still pounds in its tunnels,
Courses in hidden splendor
Like running flame in the pulses –

What if the moon be ashes!

– Josephine Pinckney (1932, published in Poetry)

Willem Cornelisz Duyster
The Tric-Trac Players
ca. 1625
oil on canvas
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

 Wouter Crabeth the Younger
Incredulity of Thomas
ca. 1626-30
oil on canvas
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Gerrit van Honthorst
Crowning with Thorns
ca. 1622
oil on canvas
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Gerrit van Honthorst
Shepherd playing the Flute to Four Shepherdesses
1632
oil on canvas
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

from Pastoral Dialogue

Remember when you love, from that same hour
Your peace you put into your lover's power;
From that same hour from him you laws receive,
And as he shall ordain, you joy, or grieve,
Hope, fear, laugh, weep; Reason aloof does stand,
Disabled both to act, and to command.
Oh cruel fetters! rather wish to feel
On your soft limbs, the galling weight of steel;
Rather to bloody wounds oppose your breast.
No ill, by which the body can be pressed
You will so sensible a torment find
As shackles on your captived mind.

– Anne Killigrew (1660-1685)

Gerrit van Honthorst
Satyr and Nymph
1623
oil on canvas
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

workshop of Gerrit van Honthorst
Putti with Flower Garland
ca. 1650
oil on canvas
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Gerbrand van den Eeckhout
Continence of Scipio
ca. 1650-66
oil on canvas
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Aelbert Cuyp
Portrait of a Young Man
ca. 1640-60
oil on panel
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

Jacob de Gheyn II
Venus and Cupid
ca. 1605-1610
oil on panel
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam

An Ode

The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name;
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay;
When Cloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blushed; Euphelia frowned;
I sung and gazed; I played and trembled;
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked how ill we all dissembled.

– Matthew Prior (1664-1721)