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PSYCHEDELIA #0704_5/ 2004
(  Satoshi Kinoshita )
| Series: | Paintings: Landscape | | Medium: | Acrylic on non-stretched canvas | | Size (inches): | 49.5 x 37.5 | | Size (mm): | 1257 x 953 | | Catalog #: | PA_047 | | Description: | Signed, titled, date, copyright in magic ink on the reverse.
In my mental or nervous fever, or madness - I am not too sure how to put it or what to call it - my thoughts sailed over many seas.
-From Vincent van Gogh to Paul Gauguin, Arles, 22 or 23 January 1889.
At this time, Vincent was 35 year old.
Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd.
-Edith Sitwell (1887 - 1964)
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
`Who are you?' he said.
`I am the Happy Prince.'
`Why are you weeping then?' asked the Swallow; `you have quite drenched me.'
`When I was alive and had a human heart,' answered the statue, `I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot choose but weep.'
`What, is he not solid gold?' said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
`Far away,' continued the statue in a low musical voice, `far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.'
`I am waited for in Egypt,' said the Swallow. `My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.'
`Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,' said the Prince, `will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.'
`I don't think I like boys,' answered the Swallow. `Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.'
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. `It is very cold here,' he said; `but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.'
`Thank you, little Swallow,' said the Prince.
-From "THE HAPPY PRINCE" (extract) by Oscar Wilde (1888).
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