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#1 hawkwood

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Posted 09 April 2005 - 10:43 AM

:)

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#2 hawkwood

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Posted 10 April 2005 - 01:18 PM

Nothing retains the shape of what it was,
And Nature, always making old things new,
Proves nothing dies within the universe,
But takes another being in new forms.
What is called birth is change from what we were,
And death the shape of being left behind.
Though all things melt or grow from here to there,
Yet the same balance of the world remains.


From The Metamorphoses by Ovid. Translated by Horace Gregory, New York: Viking Press, pp. 4~, 425-26.
Copyright 1958 by The Viking Press, renewed 1986 by Patrick Bolton Gregory.

#3 Alex

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Posted 10 April 2005 - 11:05 PM

\Beautiful poem, but why????
We don't stop playing because we get old, we get old because we stop playing.
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#4 hawkwood

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Posted 11 April 2005 - 12:21 AM

soooooooooooo. Alex was the only person brave enough to ask what was going in in my tiny little mind eh? :cheer:

firstly I will explain that so far I have only posted a section of the poem the rest will follow in dribs and drabs.

as to the point. Consider the previous two posts along with a few more to follow as trailers (as in cinima trailer) they are intended to build up suspense and get people curious, to which end I invite you to talk amongst yourselves and see if you can guess at the finished painting which will be posted at the end of the trailer section of this thread.

my first post was the teaser trailer by the way. admitedly it relies on you ignoring that I have an evil enough sense of humour to come up with this idea and believing that I would never make a pointless post. A worthless post maybe, but never a pointless post.

we are now into the meaty trailers which will give you some idea as to what the painting will be about. And I shall end the trailer section of the thread with a spoiler trailer exactly 24 hours before I post the painting itself

#5 hawkwood

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Posted 11 April 2005 - 12:24 AM

Meaty trailer 2 :cheer:

"How many creatures walking on this earth
Have their first being in another form?
Yet one exists that is itself forever,
Reborn in ageless likeness through the years


From the Metamorphoses by Ovid. Translated by Horace Gregory, New York: Viking Press, pp. 4~, 425-26.
Copyright 1958 by The Viking Press, renewed 1986 by Patrick Bolton Gregory.

#6 peter

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Posted 11 April 2005 - 06:37 AM

Bet it's a duck

#7 Starry eyed goblin

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Posted 11 April 2005 - 05:11 PM

Bet it's a duck

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>



:cheer:

#8 hawkwood

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Posted 11 April 2005 - 06:27 PM

:cheer: You have been reading ahead havent you Peter? :cheer:

#9 hawkwood

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Posted 12 April 2005 - 01:02 AM

meaty trailer3

It is that bird Assyrians call the Phoenix,
Nor does he eat the common seeds and grasses,
But drinks the juice of rare, sweet-burning herbs.
When he has done five hundred years of living
He winds his nest high up a swaying palm-And delicate dainty claws prepare his bed
Of bark and spices, myrrh and cinnamon-And dies while incense lifts his soul away.
Then from his breast-or so the legend runs-A little Phoenix rises over him,
To live, they say, the next five hundred years.


From the Metamorphoses by Ovid. Translated by Horace Gregory, New York: Viking Press, pp. 4~, 425-26.
Copyright 1958 by The Viking Press, renewed 1986 by Patrick Bolton Gregory.

#10 peter

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Posted 12 April 2005 - 10:31 AM

Ahem..............I've said it before, and I'll say it again......... :thumbup:

#11 Starry eyed goblin

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Posted 12 April 2005 - 10:40 AM

There once was an ugly duckling,
Its feathers all singed and black... :thumbup:

#12 Graeme

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Posted 12 April 2005 - 12:21 PM

MMMMMMM....crispy duck and plum sauce :thumbup:

#13 peter

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Posted 12 April 2005 - 02:15 PM

Crispy duck = Phoenix........QED :thumbup:

#14 hawkwood

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Posted 12 April 2005 - 05:40 PM

:) stary :blush: graemek :yay2: peter

the rest of the poem is not realy relevant to the painting because he departs from the common phoenix legend but I will post it here for anyone who is interseted and hasnt already read it or looked it up :clap:

When he is old enough in hardihood,
He lifts his crib (which is his father's tomb)
Midair above the tall palm wavering there
And journeys toward the city of the Sun,
Where in Sun's temple shines the Phoenix' nest."

From the Metamorphoses by Ovid. Translated by Horace Gregory, New York: Viking Press, pp. 4~, 425-26.
Copyright 1958 by The Viking Press, renewed 1986 by Patrick Bolton Gregory.

spoiler trailer coming up shortly

:) :thumbup: :rolleyes:

#15 peter

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Posted 12 April 2005 - 05:53 PM

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe. :thumbup:




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