Tag Archives: Old Masters

€1 Sundays pt. 2: Alte Pinakothek 

Trading modern for masters, I left the Pinakothek der Moderne for the Alte Pinakothek. 

Paneled windows and tan stone replaced the overwhelming white of my first destination. The renaissance revival architecture a clear indication of the museum’s contrast collection. 

Founded in 1836 by Ludwig I of Bavaria, the Alte Pinakothek houses one of the oldest art collections in the world. 

Over 700 paintings populate its walls, art by Europe’s old masters spanning from the 14th to 18th century. The wonder of their world immortalized before me.

Trailing my eyes over the ancient flicks of oiled color, my mind dissolved into the stories bursting through each stroke. 

The Fairer Sex

Fine Lady,

your flesh is too white for truth,

white enough to suffocate your pores,

a different kind of corset in powdered lead,

you bargin a slow death for idle perfection. 

Finest silk,

Poised & Polished

Languid & Limited 

No sharp edges to your tongue,

no harsh threads bristling his hand on the small of your back,

all lines soft to the touch. 

Delicate, your defense. 

Lazy, your lie. 

Guarded and ignorant to manly matters,

you pull loose strings and unfurl hidden triggers,

you touch ivory notes with feeble fingers, 

you seduce glances with supple skin. 

You find power in your soft,

buried in the droop of your eyes,

in their lust for your body, 

in the limbs you are allowed, and

twirling your virtue signed over with deeds and discretion. 

Judgment

Severance & Reunions. 

Love & blood & the wandering bodies of naked men

nursed to health by Homer’s womanly words. 

Caressed and cut by mythic fates- disturbed by discontented Gods, 

their jealous egos staining creation. 

Reaching with flawless fingers for golden validation,

for the authority of their particular beauty,

in last judgment, they laugh.

Too plump with pride to see the cliff and what crux lies below. 

These petty Gods drowned out by a more covetous God,

He takes all divisions and divinity. 

Smiling the devil’s teeth

in the face of flesh. 

Damning the forked tongue he sliced,

ugly is the enemy. He calls

erase your ego. 

For your God holds all pride 

for Himself. A divine blanket

to cover His manly insecurities, 

to ease the threat of self-love,

condemned by this free love’s snaking eclipse of devotion. 

Sacrifice your severed sons, 

and still, it is not enough. 

There are no complex corridors in the pure mind. 

To question is to condemn.

Close your eyes. 

Stay silent as we trade one fantasy for another.

Drown beneath your own blood and thank Him. 

Watch within as your iron paints over clouded Olympus with His gated heaven. 

The Question of Virtue

How many versions of my falsehood have been painted by the faithful? 

Never have I laid with a man. Only angels,

So my story goes. 

My pure iris watches these men believe the right woman,

bolstered by her husband’s immaculate conviction. 

His denial deemed faith enough to cover my unfaithful.

This power of innocence & ignorance. 

My greatest indiscretion,

the proof in my child’s karmic arc. 

His fateful cross mine to bear for justice. 

Penence for the blade I drew through his father,

a vengeful passion left over from his draw through me. 

The consequence of the stains on my soul

tracked in the blood I painted red on the floor. 

A tragedy of trauma,

an act of an expanding universe. 

I must believe the strings are pulled by God,

hold his son’s head in my hands and hear the voice of heaven. 

In my dreams and delusions, He seduces me. 

Him, the taste on my tongue and the name I spit 

to believe my womanly deception. 

Pre & Post Impressionist

Embraced by the 1800s common ground,

these lines dart & dash in visions

clouded & close they come together 

as you depart. 

Van Gogh’s insanely sanctified in sunflowers,

Manet’s layered in a vision of Monet,

Monet in his aqua white flurish. 

Brushstrokes touched with the sameness 

of afternoon cigarettes ashed on cobblestone

blown to dust by shared conversation. 

Cradled in the 2000s they still converse. 

Across galleries their eyes meet,

their scenes moving in wooden frames,

touching still-their impression 

burned behind their beholder’s eyes. 

Side by side in arts infamous severance,

neighbors kept in canvased immortality.