Max Ernst 127

Posted in Art, Photo with tags , , on April 2, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden

Lee Miller, Ernst-Carrington

Photograph of Ernst and Leonora Carrington by Lee Miller, c. 1939

La visión de Ezequiel

Posted in Painting with tags , on April 2, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Francisco Collantes
oil on canvas, 1630
Museo del Prado

Noli me tangere

Posted in Painting with tags , , , on April 1, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Jacopo da Pontormo (attributed)
oil on canvas, c. 1530
Casa Buonarroti

Life, Life

Posted in Painting, Poetry with tags , on March 22, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden


I don’t believe in omens nor fear
Forebodings. I flee from neither slander
Nor from poison. Death does not exist.
Everyone’s immortal. Everything is too.
No point in fearing death at seventeen,
Or seventy. There’s only here and now, and light;
Neither death, nor darkness, exists.
We’re all already on the seashore;
I’m one of those who’ll be hauling in the nets
When a shoal of immortality swims by.


If you live in a house – the house will not fall.
I’ll summon any of the centuries,
Then enter one and build a house in it.
That’s why your children and your wives
Sit with me at one table, –
The same for ancestor and grandson:
The future is being accomplished now,
If I raise my hand a little,
All five beams of light will stay with you.
Each day I used my collar bones
For shoring up the past, as though with timber,
I measured time with geodetic chains
And marched across it, as though it were the Urals.


I tailored the age to fit me.
We walked to the south, raising dust above the steppe;
The tall weeds fumed; the grasshopper danced,
Touching its antenna to the horse-shoes – and it prophesied,
Threatening me with destruction, like a monk.
I strapped my fate to the saddle;
And even now, in these coming times,
I stand up in the stirrups like a child.

I’m satisfied with deathlessness,
For my blood to flow from age to age.
Yet for a corner whose warmth I could rely on
I’d willingly have given all my life,
Whenever her flying needle
Tugged me, like a thread, around the globe.

Text: Poem by Arseny Tarkovsky, source unknown
Image: Jan Brueghel the Younger, Dorfgracht mit landungssteg und ziehbrunnen, oil on copper, private collection

Several people have complained about it.

Posted in Cinema, Philosophy, Writing with tags on March 22, 2018 by Dylan Thomas Hayden


Since the war culture has somehow collapsed, fallen apart. All over the world. Along  with spiritual criteria. Here, quite obviously, apart from anything else it’s the result of the consistent, barbaric, annihilation of culture. And without culture society naturally runs wild. God knows where it’s all going to end. Never before has ignorance reached such monstrous proportions. This repudiation of the spiritual can only engender monsters. Now, as never before, we have to make a stand for everything that has the slightest relevance to the spiritual.

How readily man turns away from immortality; surely he is not quintessentially brutish?

It’s far harder to maintain a high moral state than to vegetate in insignificance.

Text: Andrei Tarkovsky, Time Within Time: The Diaries 1970-86. London: Faber & Faber, 1994
Image: Tarkovsky preparing Andrei Rublev

The Sorceress left too soon…

Posted in Art, Poetry, Surrealism with tags , , on December 16, 2017 by Dylan Thomas Hayden

Remedios Varo with husband Benjamin Péret and André Breton.
Breton saluted Varo’s early death with the words above.

Simpatía (La Rabia del Gato)

Posted in Painting, Surrealism with tags on December 16, 2017 by Dylan Thomas Hayden

Remedios Varo
oil on masonite, 1955