Archive for Hubert Robert

Paysage avec une statue d’Isis

Posted in Drawing with tags , on October 18, 2016 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Hubert Robert
red chalk, 1762
Hermitage Museum

The Ring

Posted in Painting, Poetry with tags , on October 17, 2016 by Dylan Thomas Hayden


Long since we were a family, a people,
The legends say; an old kind-hearted king
Was our foster father, and our life a fable.

Nature in wrath broke through the grassy ring
Where all our gathered treasures lay in sleep –
Many a rich and many a childish thing.

She filled with hoofs and horns the quiet keep.
Her herds beat down the turf and nosed the shrine
In bestial wonder, bull and adder and ape,

Lion and fox, all dressed by fancy fine
In human flesh and armed with arrows and spears;
But on the brow of each a secret sign

That haughtily put aside the sorrowful years
Or struck them down in stationary rage;
Yet they had tears that were not like our tears,

And new, all new, for Nature knows no age.
Fatherless, sonless, homeless haunters, they
Had never known the vow and the pilgrimage,

Poured from one fount into the faithless day.
We are their sons, but long ago we heard
Our fathers or our fathers’ fathers say

Out of their dream the long-forgotten word
That rounded again the ring where sleeping lay
Our treasures, still unrusted and unmarred.

Text: Edwin Muir, “The Ring”, The Spectator, 26 Dec 1941
Image: Hubert Robert, Paysage avec les ruines du Temple Rond, une statue de Vénus et un monument à Marc-Aurèle, 1789, Hermitage Museum


Posted in Painting with tags on October 16, 2016 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Hubert Robert
oil on canvas, 1773
Hermitage Museum

Paysage avec colonne triomphale

Posted in Painting with tags on October 16, 2016 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Hubert Robert
oil on canvas, 1773
Hermitage Museum

Ode on Melancholy

Posted in Painting, Poetry with tags , on October 15, 2016 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
 No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Text: John Keats, Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes and Other Poems. London: Taylor and Hessey, 1820
Image: Hubert Robert, Ruines avec un obélisque au fond, 1775, Pushkin Museum

Les Peintres

Posted in Painting with tags on October 14, 2016 by Dylan Thomas Hayden
Hubert Robert
oil on canvas, c. 1790
Hermitage Museum