"Death is the mother of beauty." — Wallace Stevens
From the 2020 Feast of St. Wallace Stevens,
who reportedly died in 1955 on August 2 —
Related material —
Exercise: Can each order-4 magic square be obtained by some
transformation like the one above (i.e., preserving affine hyperplanes)?
If not, why not?
Update of 31 Jan. 2023 — Spoiler: Remarks by Tilman Piesk.
Continued from Music Box – The Theory (April 21)
in memory of jazz enthusiast Ann Sneed,
who reportedly died in Las Vegas at 87 on that date.
Hollywood homicide detective Harry Bosch at home.
See also Mother of Beauty (April 7, 2004).
— A sequel of sorts to yesterday's post on the number fifteen —
Today's date and the title of the recent Pythagorean novel "The Thousand" suggest a search for the title "The Sixteen." This yields a British music ensemble.
Listen, for instance, to the ensemble performing works by Purcell in honor (partly) of Scottish composer James MacMillan's fiftieth birthday on July 16, 2009.
A check on synchronicity yields the following Log24 posts —
Happy birthday, Professor Gates.
“And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light…”
— Four Quartets, quoted here
November 22, 2004
ART WARS:
Mother of Beauty
In memory of architect Pierre Koenig…
Mother of Beauty: A Note on Modernism.
“… Case Study House #22 … was high drama — one in which the entire city becomes part of the architect’s composition. Approached along a winding street set high in the Hollywood Hills, the house first appears as a blank concrete screen. From here, the visitor steps out onto a concrete deck that overlooks a swimming pool. Just beyond it, the house’s living room — enclosed in a glass-and steel-frame — cantilevers out from the edge of the hill toward the horizon.
The house was immortalized in a now famous image taken by the architectural photographer Julius Shulman. In it, two women, clad in immaculate white cocktail dresses, are perched on the edge of their seats in the glass-enclosed living room, their pose suggesting a kind of sanitized suburban bliss. A night view of the city spreads out beneath them, an endless grid of twinkling lights that perfectly captures the infinite hopes of the postwar American dream….
“My blue dream…”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
Perhaps no house, in fact, better sums up the mix of outward confidence and psychic unease that defined Cold War America….”
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