THEY WERE A LIFETIME TOGETHER
Yes I do.
Yes, I’ve photoshopped. But the real thing was close enough, I tell you.
Pretty. But if it were a real Maxfield Parrish, you’d have nymphs and nubiles scampering around in there on swings and such.
In the outhouse of my grandparents summer camp there were several Parrish prints. I’d say they contributed greatly to an early appreciation for the female form.
That and the print of Venus of Willendorf.
The whole day was like Cloud Capades.
I can vouch for the beauty of the raw sunset. I was sitting in an hour-and-a-half traffic jam smack in the middle of Ohio. I knew I was in trouble when I saw the Lifeflight helicopter come over the treeline and land on the expressway so, so far in the distance (granted not as much trouble as the person being loaded onto the chopper, but still). Then my Shuffle pooped out.
The sunset was the only thing that kept me going all Bruce Banner, turning green and throwing my car into the cornfield at hand. There was a sharp, clear crescent moon a bit later — my reward.
Was that Venus up there last night? I haven’t had time to check any of the usual sites to see if it was. Watched the final rays last night from the far end of my property which opens into a field of soy (almost ready to harvest).
If you’re going to live in SoOhio, you have to learn the local dialect.
It’s …the real thing was close enough, I tell you whut.
Reminds me of this, for some reason:
The sky over London was glorious, ochre and madder, as though a dozen tropic sums were simultaneously setting round the horizon; everywhere the searchlights clustered and hovered, then swept apart; here and there pitchy clouds drifted and billowed; now and then a huge flash momentarily froze the serene fireside glow. Everywhere the shells sparkled like Christmas baubles.
“Pure Turner,” said Guy Crouchback, enthusiastically; he came fresh to these delights.
“John Martin, surely?” said Ian Kilbannock.
“No,” said Guy firmly. He would not accept correction on matters of art from this former sporting-journalist. “Not Martin. The sky-line is too low. The scale is less than Babylonian.”
They stood at the top of St James’s Street. Half-way down Turtle’s Club was burning briskly. From Piccadilly to the Palace the whole jumble of incongruous facades was caricatured by the blaze.
(Evelyn Waugh, Officers and Gentlemen)
I’m amazed at how many people don’t know Maxfield Parrish. Kudos to you, once again proving yourself a man of great taste.
Great pic too, BTW.
Indeed yes. Wow. Could I perchance convince you to put up a bigger version of that? I’m looking for a new background image.
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