Write a poem using the words in the cloud. If you need additional ones, that's cool. Then post it in the comments.
Something great went yawning
Just in time for the tea party
I’ll interrupt the mad tea-things in the garden
With something personal,
Some daring yawning
It went well around the little table
I pinched every reply
The Treacle went murdering
The Hare shook the table
The Hatter spoke of wine and butter
It is dreadfully a beginning
And a grand uncomfortable remark.
Benjamin Lacombe deals mostly in fairy tales: Snow White, Alice in Wonderland, Madame Butterfly, the Tales of Edgar Allen Poe, Medusa, Ondine, even Marie Antoinette. I classify all these as fairy tales because he has no interest in history, reality, or even, at times, accurate anatomy.
but then there are those pieces which don't find easy classification. Oh, I'm sure with the internet it's possible to figure out in a couple minutes the source of every piece. But I approach these pieces like a scavenger. Things found by chance. For I actually did find them by chance in the glorious landfill that is Pinterest.
I approach the the pieces as if I have nothing except my contemporary understanding of culture, history and literature. These days we are more apt to encounter art this way, out of the superimposed context of a museum.
And there is is a valid and important argument in favor of rejecting titles, authors names, in fact all context so that we may approach a piece of work freshly and freely. It makes the piece more ours because our interpretation personal and unmolested.
Approaching Lacombe's works relatively unfettered has been a horrifying journey into my childhood and has caused me to reevaluate melancholy and my relationships with animals. It has not been pleasant.
The figures uncomfortably fit within their scenes. The animation is obvious: the heads are larger than normal, the eyes extraordinarily large and round: the bodies have the dimensions of what would be defined as "cute". The colors are vibrant, there are adorable cats, the women are dressed lavishly and enviously, and the figures may or may not be dead.
These pieces are quite horrifying, but lack the traditional dread which would accompany it. Rather, the characters in these works have resigned themselves to their story. They have complete hopelessness. They look at us with the last expression a suicide would have.
I've said too much. So much for my quest to create a fresh, free art experience. Enjoy. Or, as at least, try to.
I'm Lady Ristretto, writing under a pseudonym. My pseudonym has a pseudonym.