GO FIGURE Now it is evident that the

GO FIGURE

Now, it is evident that the dramatic incidents must be treated from the same points of view as the dramatic speeches, when the object is to evoke the sense of pity, fear, importance, or probability. The only difference is, that the incidents should speak for themselves without verbal exposition; while the effects aimed at in speech should be produced by the speaker, and as a result of the speech. For what were the business of a speaker, if the Thought were revealed quite apart from what he says? Aristotle. Poetics 19

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior. I hate and love. Why do I do this perhaps you ask. I don’t know, but I feel it happening, and I am crucified. Catullus 85

99 Oil Paintings of Beer. Poster for Exhibition. 2015

George Seurat. Un dimanche après-midi sur l'île de la Grande Jatte

Kazmir Malevich. Black Square. 1915. 79. 5 cm x 79. 5 cm

Gillian Carnegie Black Square 2008 Five ways to looks at Malevich’s Black Square

A Paint by Numbers Painting

Employees from the Voyager Telecommunications Section, too anxious to wait for the first official processed image from Mars, attached strips side by side to a display panel and hand colored the numbers like a paint-by-numbers picture.

Let us live, my Lesbia, and love. As for all the rumors of those stern old men, Let us value them at a mere penny. Suns may set and yet rise again, but Us, with our brief light, can set but once. One never-ending night must be slept. Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred. Then, another thousand, and a second hundred. Then, yet another thousand, and a hundred. Then, when we have counted up many thousands, Let us shake the abacus, so that no one may know the number, And become jealous when they see How many kisses we have shared. Vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus, rumoresque senum severiorum omnes unius aestimemus assis! soles occidere et redire possunt: nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, nox est perpetua una dormienda. da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum. dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus, aut ne quis malus inuidere possit, cum tantum sciat esse basiorum. Catullus 1. 5

Come, my Celia, let us prove While we may, the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever; He at length our good will sever. Spend not then his gifts in vain. Suns that set may rise again; But if once we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys? Fame and rumor are but toys. Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies, Or his easier ears beguile, So removed by our wile? 'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal; But the sweet theft to reveal. To be taken, to be seen, These have crimes accounted been. Ben Jonson, from Volpone

Catullus Carmina 42 Come here, eleveners, so many I can hardly tell where you all came from. That ugly slut thinks I'm a joke and refuses to give us back the poems, can you believe this shit? Lets hunt her down , and demand them back! Who is she, you ask? That one, who you see strutting around, with ugly clown lips, laughing like a pesky French poodle. Surround her, ask for them again! "Rotten slut, give my poems back! Give 'em back, rotten slut, the poems!" Doesn't give a shit? Oh, crap. Whorehouse. or if anything's worse, you're it. But I've not had enough thinking about this. If nothing else, lets make that pinched bitch turn red-faced. All together shout, once more, louder: "Rotten slut, give my poems back! Give 'em back, rotten slut, the poems!" But nothing helps, nothing moves her. A change in your methods is cool, if you can get anything more done. "Sweet thing, give my poems back Adeste, hendecasyllabi, quot estis omnes undique, quot estis omnes. Iocum me putat esse moecha turpis, et negat mihi nostra reddituram pugillaria, si pati potestis. Persequamur eam et reflagitemus. Quae sit, quaeritis? Illa, quam videtis turpe incedere, mimice ac moleste ridentem catuli ore Gallicani. Circumsistite eam, et reflagitate, "moecha putida, redde codicillos, redde putida moecha, codicillos!" Non assis facis? O lutum, lupanar, aut si perditius potes quid esse. Sed non est tamen hoc satis putandum. Quod si non aliud potest ruborem ferreo canis exprimamus ore. Conclamate iterum altiore uoce. "Moecha putide, redde codicillos, redde, putida moecha, codicillos!" Sed nil proficimus, nihil mouetur. Mutanda est ratio modusque vobis, siquid proficere amplius potestis: "pudica et proba, redde codicillos. "

Alfred Lord Tennyson Hendecasyllabics O you chorus of indolent reviewers, Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem All composed in a metre of Catullus, All in quantity, careful of my motion, Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him, Lest I fall unawares before the people, Waking laughter in indolent reviewers. Should I flounder awhile without a tumble Thro' this metrification of Catullus, They should speak to me not without a welcome, All that chorus of indolent reviewers. Hard, hard it is, only not to tumble, So fantastical is the dainty meter. Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers. O blatant Magazines, regard me rather Since I blush to belaud myself a moment As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost Horticultural art, or half-coquette-like Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly. For Once, Then, Something By Robert Frost Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs Always wrong to the light, so never seeing Deeper down in the well than where the water Gives me back in a shining surface picture Me myself in the summer heaven godlike Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs. Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb, I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture, Through the picture, a something white, uncertain, Something more of the depths—and then I lost it. Water came to rebuke the too clear water. One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom, Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness? Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something.

Passer, deliciae meae puellae, quicum ludere, quem in sinu tenere, cui primum digitum dare appetenti et acris solet incitare morsus, cum desiderio meo nitenti carum nescio quid lubet iocari et solaciolum sui doloris, credo ut tum gravis acquiescat ardor: tecum ludere sicut ipsa possem et tristis animi levare curas! Sparrow, favorite of my girl, with whom she is accustomed to play, whom she is accustomed to hold in her lap, for whom, seeking greedily, she is accustomed to give her index finger and to provoke sharp bites when it is pleasing for my shining desire to make some kind of joke and a relief of her grief, I believe, so that her heavy passion may become quiet. If only I were able to play with yourself, and to lighten the sad cares of your mind. Carmina 1. 2

Joseph-Marie Vien. Young Woman in Turkish Costume Playing with Bird.

Eudene Delacroix. Woman with Parrot. 1827

Gustav Courbet. Woman with a Parrot. 1866

Edouard Manet. Woman with Parrot. 1866

I 11 Tu ne quaesieris (scire nefas) quem mihi, quem tibi finem di dederint, Leuconoe, nec Babylonios temptaris numeros. Ut melius quicquid erit pati! Seu pluris hiemes seu tribuit Iuppiter ultimam, quae nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare Tyrrhenum, sapias, vina liques et spatio brevi spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Don’t ask, Leuconoë-it’s forbidden to know-- how long the gods have given to you and to me: don't play the numbers of Babylonian astrology. Better to take whatever is coming, whether Iuppiter allows us more winters, or this one that now wearies the Etruscan sea as it beats on the cliffs is the last. Be sensible: strain the wine: in the small space of life, prune back long hope. As we talk, envious time will have flown: pluck today: trust tomorrow least.

He who is upright in life and pure of sin does not need Moorish javelins nor bow nor a quiver swollen with poisonous arrows, Fuscus, whether a journey must be made through the burning Syrtes or through the inhospitable Caucasus or the places which the famous Hydaspes washes. On the other hand, in the Sabine forest, while I am singing of my Lalage and wandering beyond my border free from cares, a wolf flees me, unarmed; such a omen as warlike Apulia does not support in the wide oak forests and the land of Juba does not produce, dry nurse of lions. Put me in lazy fields where no tree is restored by a summer breeze, the side of the world which clouds and bad weather presses; put me under the chariot of the too-near sun, in a land denied houses: I will love Lalage sweetly laughing, sweetly speaking. Horace. Odes 1. 11

Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa perfusus liquidis urget odoribus grato, Pyrrha, sub antro? Cui flavam religas comam, simplex munditiis? Heu quotiens fidem mutatosque deos flebit et aspera nigris aequora ventis emirabitur insolens qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea, qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem sperat, nescius aurae fallacis. Miseri, quibus intemptata nites. Me tabula sacer votiva paries indicat uvida suspendisse potenti vestimenta maris deo. What slender Youth bedew'd with liquid odours Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave, Pyrrha for whom thou In wreaths thy golden Hair, Horace. Odes 1. 5 John Milton, translation of Horace Odes I. 5 Plain in thy neatness; O how oft shall he On Faith and changed Gods complain: and seas Rough with black winds and storms Unwonted shall admire: Who now enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold, Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable Hopes thee; of flattering gales Unmindfull. Hapless they To whom thou untry'd seem'st fair. Me in my vow'd Picture the sacred wall declares t' have hung My dank and dropping weeds To the stern God of Sea.

from Samuel Menashe, New and Selected Poems, ed. Christopher Ricks 2009 Beachhead The tide ebbs From a helmet Wet sand imbeds O many-named Beloved Listen to my praise Various as the seasons Different as the days All my treasons cease When I see your face Annunciation She bows her head Submissive, yet Her downcast glance Asks the angel, “Why, For this romance, Do I qualify? ”

One is the loneliest number Tea for Two (Doris Day) Tea for Two (Sarah Vaughan)