Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Artist Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Art by Marie Bortolotto 2016
Abstract Mixed Media Collage
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Art by Marie Bortolotto 2016
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Artist Marie Bortolotto 2016 Black Earth Red Earth - Poem by Cesare Pavese Black earth red earth, you come from the sea, from the arid green, where there are ancient words and bloody toil and geranium among rocks— you don't know how much you bring of toil and words from the sea, you're rich like a memory, like the barren countryside, you hard and sweetest word, ancient because of the blood gathered in the eyes; young, like a fruit that is a memory and a season— your breath rests under the sky of August, the olives of your look sweeten the sea, and you live and live again without amazement, certain like the earth, dark like the earth, a grinder of seasons and dreams that reveals itself under the moon to be so old, just like the hands of your mother, the bowl of the brazier. - Cesare Pavese, Italian Poet, Novelist 1908 - 1950 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 |
Marie Bortolotto 2016 “In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind. This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over the others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind and another. At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its unquenchable love of poetry. The fact is, it knows no other art than the art of writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs on to it more or less blindly.” ― Matsuo BashÅ, The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches |