#pre-raphaelite
John Everett Millais, The Rescue (1855) [©, appropriately, the National Gallery of Victoria]
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John William Waterhouse - Tristan and Isolde
1916 / oil on canvas / 109 cm x 81 cm / Private Collection
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John William Waterhouse - Tristan and Isolde
1916 / oil on canvas / 109 cm x 81 cm / Private Collection
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Sir. Joseph Noel Paton - The Reconciliation of Oberon and Titania
1847 / oil on canvas / 76 cm x 123 cm / National Gallery of Scotland (Edinburgh, UK)
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Dante Gabriel Rossetti - The Blessed Damozel
1871-1878 / oil on canvas / 136.8 cm × 96.5 cm / Harvard Art Museums (Cambridge, USA)
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Dante Gabriel Rossetti - The Blessed Damozel
1871-1878 / oil on canvas / 136.8 cm × 96.5 cm / Harvard Art Museums (Cambridge, USA)
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Wright Barker - Circe
1889 / oil on canvas / 138 cm × 188 cm / Cartwright Hall Art Gallery (Bradford, UK)
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Wright Barker - Circe
1889 / oil on canvas / 138 cm × 188 cm / Cartwright Hall Art Gallery (Bradford, UK)
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Edward Burne-Jones - Perseus and the Graiae
1892 / oil on canvas / Staatsgalerie Stuttgart (Stuttgart, Germany)
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Edward Burne-Jones - Perseus and the Graiae
1892 / oil on canvas / Staatsgalerie Stuttgart (Stuttgart, Germany)
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Some costume research for the Daughter, from @mai-col ‘s story
Did this a few weeks ago for our anthology project with the @artofnocturne collective. I know all those grey rows of static people might not be very exciting, from outside, but they sure are relaxing to draw.
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Frederic Leighton (1830 - 1896)
- Perseus and Andromeda
- Flaming June
- Pavonia
- The Bath of Psyche
- Wedded
- The Fisherman and the Syren
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Marie Spartali Stillman - By a Clear Well, Within a Little Field, 1883
British, 1844-1927
Oil on canvas
‘Whenever I plunge my arm, like this,
In a basin of water, I never miss
The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day
Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray.
Hence the only prime
And real love-rhyme
That I know by heart,
And that leaves no smart,
Is the purl of a little valley fall
About three spans wide and two spans tall
Over a table of solid rock,
And into a scoop of the self-same block;
The purl of a runlet that never ceases
In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces;
With a hollow boiling voice it speaks
And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks.’
'And why gives this the only prime
Idea to you of a real love-rhyme?
And why does plunging your arm in a bowl
Full of spring water, bring throbs to your soul?’
'Well, under the fall, in a crease of the stone,
Though precisely where none ever has known,
Jammed darkly, nothing to show how prized,
And by now with its smoothness opalized,
Is a drinking glass:
For, down that pass
My lover and I
Walked under a sky
Of blue with a leaf-wove awning of green,
In the burn of August, to paint the scene,
And we placed our basket of fruit and wine
By the runlet’s rim, where we sat to dine;
And when we had drunk from the glass together,
Arched by the oak-copse from the weather,
I held the vessel to rinse in the fall,
Where it slipped, and it sank, and was past recall,
Though we stooped and plumbed the little abyss
With long bared arms. There the glass still is.
And, as said, if I thrust my arm below
Cold water in a basin or bowl, a throe
From the past awakens a sense of that time,
And the glass we used, and the cascade’s rhyme.
The basin seems the pool, and its edge
The hard smooth face of the brook-side ledge,
And the leafy pattern of china-ware
The hanging plants that were bathing there.
'By night, by day, when it shines or lours,
There lies intact that chalice of ours,
And its presence adds to the rhyme of love
Persistently sung by the fall above.
No lip has touched it since his and mine
In turns therefrom sipped lovers’ wine.’
'Under the Waterfall’ by Thomas Hardy, 1914
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Our Lady of Peace (1907)
Evelyn De Morgan (1855-1919)
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