First Art Show of the Year

Well - it is that time of year again ! Art Fair season.
Crossing my t's, dotting my i's and getting ready to leave for the 49th Annual National Morel Mushroom Festival in Boyne City, Michigan. This year it is also an invitation only show as they are trying to bring the quality up and make it a destination of choice on the circuit. Always game for something like that so ... I'm heading back.
Last year at this time - it received the dubious distinction of being the first art show that I ever participated in. Learned alot about setting up my booth and some of the things I needed to create a good display and to market my windharps.
All a work in progress.
Always a work in progress as it should be.
I'll give you a report of the show upon my return.
Safe Journeys
Steve

After a long hiatus .....

Things have been very hectic trying to get ready for the gallery exhibition and summer shows and thus I apologize for the lack of material on this blog. That will be changing as I get into the habit of checking and updating this journal about the aeolian harps and my work.

I am fully open to suggestions on what you would like to learn about the Aeolian Harp as there is much provided by history regarding this instrument.

As has been blogged earlier, the Aeolian (Eolian) harp is a musical instrument designed to be played by the movement of wind over the strings and is one of the most significant symbols ever to appear in the arts during the Romantic Period. The wind harp achieved its popularity during the Romantic period largely because of its relationship to Nature and it encompassed many salient characteristics of Romantic mindset and wonderment.

One poet of the day that wrote about the Aeolian Harp was Percy Bysshe Shelley. Below you will find one of his works. Enjoy.

ODE TO THE WEST WIND

by: Percy Bysshe Shelly (1792-1822)

I.

WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and odors plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!

II.

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,

Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread

On the blue surface of thine airy surge,

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the zenith's height,

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,

Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh hear!

III.

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,

Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers

Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou

For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear

The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,

And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!

IV.

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free

Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even

I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,

As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed

Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed

One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is;

What if my leaves are falling like its own!

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,

My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!

And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an extinguished hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unwakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Thanks for taking the time to read my blog - I look forward to having you return.

Safe Journeys
Steve