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The Artist Talks about Her Paintings... Scheherazade

The Artist Talks about Her Paintings...


In the midst of the Victorian era's fascination with fiery red hair, my 30x40 acrylic painting displays the enchanting visage of Scheherazade. With closed eyes and adorned in opulent red headgear, she emerges as the embodiment of allure and storytelling prowess. We all recall the legendary queen Scheherazade, whose survival hinged on her ability to beguile the Sultan night after night with her enthralling tales. Throughout history, the art world has been spellbound by Scheherazade's enduring appeal. Rimsky-Korsakov's 1888 suite, "Scheherazade," Ida Rubinstein's mesmerizing ballet performances, René Magritte's evocative lithograph, and Alberto Vargas' captivating painting all pay homage to her lasting mystique. In this portrayal, Scheherazade finally drifts into a well-earned slumber, having once again woven a mesmerizing tale for the Sultan. It's a tribute to the enduring fascination with this legendary queen. A few years before I completed the painting ‘Scheherazade,’ my poem about her was published in the German quarterly of political culture ‘Die Gazette.’ I attach it for your reading pleasure (both in its original version in German and my own quick translation into English.)

Ballade des Wurzelwächters

Bewache die Wurzeln nun, ich verstoßener Engel, Geist nicht länger, der stets verneint, seit ich sie sah, um ihr Leben singt sie, noch makellos trägt sie trunkene Flut durch den Dornwald, wo’s Heideröslein stand. Sing Scheherazade, sing, Deine Geschichten kenn ich, nun will ich dein Lied, hüll dich in Windlocken und eile dem Feldrand zu, dort wart ich auf dich, lechzend, mit zerschmetterten Flügeln. Wirst löschen meinen brennenden Wald unter der Erde, schon jetzt spitz ich die Lippen durchs plumpe Erdreich und küss deine Fußsohlen, ach, du denkst ich sei nichts als der warme Mittagsboden. Sing, Scheherazade sing. Hörst nicht auch meinen nahen Gesang? Geduldig schab ich die Kruste, ich, der vom Himmel gestürzte Wurzelwächter, schabe und schabe, mein Herz kreischt schäbige Lust. Wenn nicht zum Sternengewölbe, so doch zur Erde will ich zurück, schwelgen mit dir beim Blattfang.

Ballad of the Root Warden

Guard the roots now, I, the outcast angel, spirit no longer, who always denies, since I saw her, for her life she sings, still immaculate she carries drunken floods through the thorny forest, where the heather-roses once stood. Sing Scheherazade, sing, your stories I know, now I want your song, wrap yourself in wind bells and hurry to the edge of the field, where I’ll be waiting for you, longing, with shattered wings. You’ll extinguish my burning forest under the earth, already I pucker my lips through the plump earth and kiss the soles of your feet, oh, and you think I am nothing but the warm noonday soil. Sing, Scheherazade sing. Don't you also hear my near song? Patiently I scrape the crust, I, the root warden, fallen from the sky, I scrape and scrape, while my heart shrieks shabby pleasure. If not to the vault of the stars, then to the earth I want to return, revel at you while together we'll catch leaves. For more information visit European Art Studio at #artwork #arte #artcontemporain #kunst #artforsale #artforconnoisseurs #kunstsammler #indianapolis #indianaowned #abstractart #womenownedbusiness

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