Moondocked

Medium: Acrylic on canvas
Artist: S.J. Raora

Storm Shine

Medium: Acrylic on Canvas
Artist: Raora aka S.J.

The Dawn Treader

I've had a mental image of the Dawn Treader from Narnia ever since I first read the book. Lately I've been working a little bit with acrylics, so I tried to capture that picture on canvas.

Reflections On Art

After studying dozens of artists and hundreds of paintings over the last several years, I have (finally) come to some conclusions about who my favorite artists are. My conclusions will very probably evolve with time, but currently they stand as follows.

My three favorite-artists-of-all-time are Michaelangelo Buonarotti, John William Waterhouse, and William Bouguereau. I like all of them for the same reason - their paintings are realistic, and their subject matter is beautiful. Beauty is the number one quality that all art must have in order to deserve the title. The element of 'meaning' that a picture contains is also important, but secondarily. There are plenty of 'meaningful' pictures today that are downright hideous.

Buonarotti, as my favorite Rennasaince artist, really represents my love for the Rennassiance painters, among them Bernini, Rembrandt, and Caravaggio. I like their colors, which are rather dark compared to more recent artwork - I generally prefer darker colors to bright ones - and I like their style. Art in those days was just breaking out of the medieval 'ice age' where all the figures are frozen onto the page and perspective is worse than a six year old's, but it retained the grace and elegance of the art that preceded it, something that more recent art has lost. The Sistine Chapel still has the half-frozen fairy tale look to it, but it is very much alive. And I think that, as a sculptor by trade, and thus being well acquainted with the human body, Buonarotti captured the art of making his figures look even more life-like than most other Rennaisannce painters.

Waterhouse represents my love for the Pre-Raphaelites. The Pre-Raphaelites are my favorite 'group' of painters. Their colors are a little bright, but I don't really mind. Waterhouse's subject matter is what is really appealing to me. He illustrated mythological stories, and loved to paint beautiful women from legends. Seeing that I can't hardly find a Pre-Raphaelite painting that I don't like, I have many, many favorites among the Pre-Raphaelites, and I recommend looking up some of their paintings, which are simply beautiful.

Bouguereau is maybe the most talented of the three when it comes to painting. Bouguereau's pictures are striking for their soft, smooth texture. They could almost pass for photographs. They are gorgeous.

Runners up are Jacques-Louis David, Frederick Leighton, Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Rembrandt, and Thomas Cole, among many others.

It is much more difficult to decide what my favorite paintings are. The first one is fairly easy, the second one rather more difficult, and in all fairness I must say that I am still not completely sure about the third one. There are so many. Anyway, here they are, in order.

The Creation of Adam, by Michaelangelo Buonarotti. The power in this picture is awesome.

My second favorite is Napleon Bonaparte at St. Bernard's Pass, by Jacques-Louis DaVid. This is truly splendid. Not that I care that much for Napoleon himself, but this picture is not about the historical Napoleon and what he represents. It is about wind in dark and frozen places, and the look on his face. This picture reminds me of Longfellow's poem, 'Excelsior.'

My third most favorite picture is probably Proserpine, by Dante Gabrielle Rossetti. This is a beautiful picture, but it really ties with several others for third place.

Five top runners up (in no particular order) are:

Tristam and Iseult, by William Waterhouse

David, by Gian Lorenzo Bernini

Hero Awaiting the Return of Leander, by Evelyn de Morgan

Innocence, by William Bouguereau

The Flagilation of Christ, by William Bouguereau

These paintings are what art is really supposed to be.

The Delphic Sibyl

My version of the Delphic Sibyl from Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel Ceiling.

The 'Amazon' coming soon!

Jadis - Queen of Charn

This is Jadis, Queen of Charn, from the Chronicles of Narnia written by C.S. Lewis. For those of you who have not read the books, she appears first as the villain in the Magicians Nephew, where she is wakened by Digory Kirke and together they flee the dying city of Charn. She follows Digory and Polly to London with intent of conquering the city and they must find a way to send her back to her own world. But Charn is no more, and they are all carried away together to the newly-made world of Narnia, where Jadis gets hold of the apple of life and, gains everlasting life, and flees to the north, establishing a stronghold. In the second book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe she musters an army to attempting to overthrow Aslan, the son of the Emperor across the Sea and become Queen of Narnian once and for all. Victory looks very close. She has killed her great enemy and has nearly prevented the prophecy of her doom from coming to pass - and then, quite unexpectedly, she suddenly finds she has attempted more than she can handle.

Shahrazad, Daughter of the Ottoman - Farewell to the Stars

and after.

La Belle Dame sans Merci

(La Belle Dame sans Merci, by William Waterhouse)

O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither’d from the lake
And no birds sing.

O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on they cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a Lady in the Meads
Full beautiful, a fairy’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light
And her eyes were wild

I made a Garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant Zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
“I love thee true.”

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dream’d, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hillside.

I saw pale Kings, and Princes too
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried, ‘La belle dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone a palely loitering;
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

~John Keats

The Lady of Shallot

(The Lady of Shallot, by William Waterhouse)

On either side of the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veiled
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the curly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burned like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lira," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Through the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turned to towered Camelot.
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

~Alfred Lord Tennyson