Ekphrasis: poems + songs in response to art
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Gustav Klimt
The Three Ages of Woman (1905)
Oil on canvas
180 x 180 cm
Galleria d'Arte Moderna, Rome
My love of ekphrastic poetry, works of literature in response to non-literary works, sparked the initial concept behind Painting Melody - a show based on songs written in response to paintings. Below is the first ekphrastic song I wrote after a moving encounter with the Klimt painting above in Rome. More of my favourite examples are below alongside the paintings that inspired them.
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Mabel Juli
Garnkiny Ngarranggarni (2016)
White clay, ochre and charcoal on canvas
150 x 150 cm
Museum of Contemporary Art Australia, Sydney
I first saw this work at Caboolture Regional Gallery in May last year at the exhibition, One Foot on the Ground, One Foot in the Water. It's stark immediacy and minimalism drew me in and I felt small standing before it. Reading an interview with the artist and learning about the dreaming behind it inspired the song below.
Mira Chorik [lyrics]
I want to fall into the sky’s embrace
To disappear in the arms of darkness
Time comes and goes, light comes and goes
Only charcoal sky remains
When I’m wrapped in black and own no name
Tell me a story to hold onto
Doubt comes and goes, hope comes and goes
Only charcoal sky remains
Before I’m left with nothing again
Give me the strength of the mountain to watch it all pass by
Fear comes and goes
The moon comes and goes
Light comes and goes
Love comes and goes
Only charcoal sky remains
To disappear in the arms of darkness
Time comes and goes, light comes and goes
Only charcoal sky remains
When I’m wrapped in black and own no name
Tell me a story to hold onto
Doubt comes and goes, hope comes and goes
Only charcoal sky remains
Before I’m left with nothing again
Give me the strength of the mountain to watch it all pass by
Fear comes and goes
The moon comes and goes
Light comes and goes
Love comes and goes
Only charcoal sky remains
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The Starry Night (1889)
Oil on canvas
73.7 cm × 92.1 cm
Museum of Modern Art, New York
The Starry Night
Anne Sexton
That does not keep me from having a terrible need of—shall I say the word—religion. Then I go out at night to paint the stars.Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother
The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.
It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:
into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.
The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die.
It moves. They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night! This is how
I want to die:
into that rushing beast of the night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.
Vincent
Don McLean
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Pieter Bruegel the Elder
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus (c.1560)Oil on canvas
73.5 cm × 112 cm
Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels
William Carlos Williams
According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring
a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry
of the year was
awake tingling
with itself
sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax
unsignificantly
off the coast
there was
a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning
when Icarus fell
it was spring
a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry
of the year was
awake tingling
with itself
sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax
unsignificantly
off the coast
there was
a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning
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The Gulf of Marseilles Seen from L'Estaque (1885)
Oil on canvas
73 x 100.3 cm
The Museum of Modern Art, New York City
Cezanne's Ports
Allen Ginsberg
Allen Ginsberg
In the foreground we see time and life
swept in a race
toward the left hand side of the picture
where shore meets shore.
But that meeting place
isn't represented;
it doesn't occur on the canvas.
For the other side of the bay
is Heaven and Eternity,
with a bleak white haze over its mountains.
And the immense water of L'Estaque is a go-between
for minute rowboats.
swept in a race
toward the left hand side of the picture
where shore meets shore.
But that meeting place
isn't represented;
it doesn't occur on the canvas.
For the other side of the bay
is Heaven and Eternity,
with a bleak white haze over its mountains.
And the immense water of L'Estaque is a go-between
for minute rowboats.
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Baigneuse / Bather (1925)
Oil on board
67 x 54.3 cm
Standing Female Nude
Carol Ann Duffy
Carol Ann Duffy
Six hours like this for a few francs
Belly nipple arse in the window light,
he drains the colour from me. Further to the right
Madame. And do try to be still.
I shall be represented analytically and hung
in great museums. The bourgeoisie will coo
at such an image of a river whore. They call it Art.
Maybe. He is concerned with volume and space,
I with the next meal. You’re getting thin,
Madame, this is not good. My breasts hang
slightly low, the studio is cold. In the tea leaves
I can see the Queen of England gazing
on my shape. Magnificent, she murmurs,
moving on. It makes me laugh. His name
is Georges. They tell me he’s a genius.
There are times he does not concentrate
and stiffens for my warmth.
He possesses me on a canvas, as he dips the brush
repeatedly into the paint. Little man,
you’ve not the money for arts I sell.
Both poor, we make our living how we can.
I ask him, Why do you do this? Because
I have to. There’s no choice. Don’t talk.
My smile confuses him. These artists
take themselves too seriously. At night, I fill myself
with wine and dance around the bars. When it’s finished,
he shows me proudly, lights a cigarette. I say
Twelve francs. And get my shawl. It does not look like me.
Belly nipple arse in the window light,
he drains the colour from me. Further to the right
Madame. And do try to be still.
I shall be represented analytically and hung
in great museums. The bourgeoisie will coo
at such an image of a river whore. They call it Art.
Maybe. He is concerned with volume and space,
I with the next meal. You’re getting thin,
Madame, this is not good. My breasts hang
slightly low, the studio is cold. In the tea leaves
I can see the Queen of England gazing
on my shape. Magnificent, she murmurs,
moving on. It makes me laugh. His name
is Georges. They tell me he’s a genius.
There are times he does not concentrate
and stiffens for my warmth.
He possesses me on a canvas, as he dips the brush
repeatedly into the paint. Little man,
you’ve not the money for arts I sell.
Both poor, we make our living how we can.
I ask him, Why do you do this? Because
I have to. There’s no choice. Don’t talk.
My smile confuses him. These artists
take themselves too seriously. At night, I fill myself
with wine and dance around the bars. When it’s finished,
he shows me proudly, lights a cigarette. I say
Twelve francs. And get my shawl. It does not look like me.
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The Regional Arts Development Fund is a partnership between the Queensland Government and City of Moreton Bay to support local arts and culture in regional Queensland.
