Writing 101: Day 2 – Art, Architecture, and Furniture until WWI. 


Prompt: Write a list. 

There is art, architecture, and furniture in every century, starting with originals and going to copies of former eras with some new ideas thrown in:

We start with ancient Egypt in in 2490 BC Menkaure and Queen, Old Kingdom standards of proportions for the human body.

Then we go to Greece in 360 BC – Marble grave Stele with a family group, family was important too in Ancient Greece. 

Followed by the Etruscans who carved their tombs to look like rooms, so the dead were comfortable, in 3rd. Century BC

The Romans conquered most of them and built in 70 to 80 BC The Flavian Amphitheatre. What you know today as the colosseum in Rome.

Then art sat on the back burner and society crumbled in the Middle Ages, but not completely – there is The Throne of Maximian in 545 AD.

But Chartes Cathderale en Paris, was built in the Gothic style to reach the heavens and  in 1194 AD  helped give birth to the Renaissance in Italy. 

The Renaissance looked back on Ancient Greece and Rome, see Michelangelo’s David in 1501 Land Pieta in 1500. 

Then came Baroque – The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa in 1647 and the Roccoco chairs of Thomas Chippendale around 1772.

In Neoclassical art we have Antonio Canova’s Cupid and Psyche in 1787, and Jacques Louis David at the Coronation of Napoleon, painted in empire style in 1804.

Then in Victorian Historical there was the Crystal Palace in 1851, and Gothic Revival Furniture in the late 1800’s.

Arts and Crafts, began a resistance to the industrial revolution, and Heywood Wakefield Chairs in Late Victorian era, were made of wicker in the early 1900’s.

The Shaker furniture with it’s simple lines began in 1850, a Arts and Crafts design, and Phillip Webb and William Morris designed the Red House in 1859.

Early Modern architecture was started by Frank Lloyd Wright who in 1910 completed the Robie House, his finest work, the modern bungalow. 

Art Noveau became a thing with Victor Horta and the winding Staircase of Tassel House in 1892 and Art Deco was realized by Emile – Jacques – Ruhlmun in The David- Weill Desk in 1918.

There’s still a ways to go, I haven’t got that far. Past WWI, art, architecture, and  furniture, continue ever changing, becoming more complicated, and looking back at once was as an ideal, and incorporating both human skills and industrialization. 

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Writing 101: Day 1 – I Write Because…


Prompt: Why do you write? This is a question you can answer again and again, as your response might evolve over time. You may have already addressed it in a previous blog post. Some bloggers also use this question, and variations of it, to shape their bios and About pages. Why am I here? Who am I? Why do I blog?
Sorry, I’m a bit late starting Writing 101, but here is Day 1.

Writing is as breathing. It happens without me being fully aware of it. An idea strikes across my mind, something is triggered. And I go onto my blog and I write. I often write a poem. I think for me that is my most free writing of all. But I like writing about picture or word prompts. I enjoy it when I am prompted by some experience I am having in life, or an idea I read about in the paper or on the Internet, or what I see on the news. I am prompted by other writers and their exquisite pieces or blogs. 

I love that in writing you are always learning. Learning to make connections to your audience, to reach out to them on a subject. I love what you perceive from their responses to your writing, and I love how with time one’s writing improves. I have learnt when to cut my writing to a couple hundred words or less in flash fiction. Often, this is difficult because you have to make every word you write mean what you want it to mean. I have learnt to “show” not “tell” my reader what is going on. I still struggle with that. I have learnt to be descriptive, to widen my vocabulary. And I just love to play with words as if they were puzzle pieces you are desperately trying to make fit into a puzzle. Words are also like chess pieces and only you know how to move your pieces to reach your final masterpiece and take the King. 

Writing is living, it’s a way to see a situation clearly. It’s a method of purging myself of sorrow or frustration. It reminds me of times past when I read over it again. It inspires me to try out things in life because with writing you need experiences to talk about it. Writing has allowed me to meet people all around the world. Writing is how I make it through the day and what keeps me up at night. Writing is truly breathing. If you want to know what’s in my heart, see what I wrote, it’s more apparent then my spoken words. I am the fire, and the written word fuels me. 


Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers: Winged Nike


In the silence of the graveyard where Nadia stood, most people would see a statue of an angel, chaste, with arms crossed. But remembering the Art History of sculpture, Nadia could see a goddess. She could picture the statue she was thinking about now. She saw one of the greatest Hellenistic statues carved by the ancient Greeks: The Winged Nike of Somothrace.

Nadia had seen the Nike at the Louvre in Paris. She could imagine the arms (no longer existing) one flung out, the other at the Nike’s mouth, shouting for victory. The Nike had been a part of the Somothrace Temple and had stood on a pedastal, the prow of a ship. She commemerated a great navel battle. The Nike captured both wild momentum and absolute stillness.

Nadia looked with pity on the angel presently. It had no movement or flare. She caused Nadia to feel only heavy misery. Perhaps, the difference was that beneath the angel lay no victory, only a small grave. But if Nadia pictured her daughter, she would rather see the winged goddess Nike and her victory song, then the angel who showed chasteness, covering the grave of a baby who never even cried. 

Word Count: 205 words (sorry!)

 

  

“Winged Nike of Somothrace,” http://www.en.m.wikipedia.org

Thanks to Priceless Joy who is our host for FFfAW. 

 

Poem: Suffer Me


I am sitting in this place, stuck within this space; trying to get out and find a burst of energy.

I know I’ll never find it, but it doesn’t stop me from asking for it; that my suffering be taken away.

But I think that the man upstairs, sees more then we’re to know; we struggle with obstacles, and life isn’t fair.

Still, I’ll pray every single night, let me go back to a healthy life; let me work and let me exercise, let me concentrate, and memorize.

But I’m scared to ask for anything, when things get worse, when I ask for it to be better; maybe I shouldn’t ask, just be happy with an imperfect world.

What I want is so small, but would make such a difference to me. I could live a normal life and play on a level playing field with most everyone else. 

I could have such empathy for those suffering because I know what it is to be in pain, to not live, while the world around you does. 

But instead, I stay at home. I work on another course, and I sleep too much; I try to do some housework and  I tire easily with just a bit of exercise; I loved so much to be fit and work my body hard. 

Sometimes going out in the day makes me fatigued for a day or two, never mind, the night; I just want a life, I just want to be able to do what many people do. 

I want to live out a normal day, in the most normal way; not have my life ruled by a disease; neurons misfiring at synapses.

I don’t know what will make it right, not a medication, only a miracle; so I pray every night, and will always ask to have my energy back, to sleep well, and concentrate all day. 

But I’m not sure my prayers will come to fruition because sometimes the answer is “no.” But I just can’t entertain that a God who loves me so, wants me to suffer this way all my life. 

I would do so much better if I could be around people, and I could laugh and be myself again; who is this woman, I do not know? My identity is tied to this disease, it’s hard to separate “it” and “me.”

I blame my genes; I guess they’d be responsible for some kind of pain anyways; but not for everything, not for a mental, physical, psychological disease; it haunts me, lives in me, as an unwanted parasite.