New ideas.

At the moment i am thinking about a piece of work to make. I have read a book of Russian poetry of the end of 19th century and the beginning of the 20th, called the silver century in poetry, which was a raise time in Russian poetry. These poets were writing about a different kind of aesthetics than was before. It was symbolist and opposing to it acmeist poetry also there were romantics. they wrote their feelings about almost everything which i found exciting.
I thought it would be very interesting to try an create a work or a series, trying to interpret these poems in art as they have so much imagery and imagination in them it gives a great opportunity to create a work with a real story inside it.
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After the tutorial i have come to a decision to make work based on one poem only, and as i really like most of the poems in the book, i chose randomly. The poem i will be doing work based on is a poem called "the evening room" by Anna Akhmatova, translated by Evgeniya Sarkisiyan.


"The Evening Room" : 

I am now speaking with that special power
That soul produces once and never hence.
A bee is buzzing on the evening flower,
The old sachet’s aroma is so dense.

This room, where windows give a narrow lighting,
To love and olden memories stays true,
The wall above the bed still keeps the writing
In French: “Seigneur, ayez pitie de nous.”

Those doleful records of the one-time fancies,
My soul, are not for you to touch or seek…
I see an old Sevre statuette still dancing,
But shine is waning on the porcelain cheek.

The final light of sun, both grave and yellow,
Stands still in the bouquet of dahlias’ gold,
And like a dream, I hear the sound of cello
And of clavier the rare, distant chord.

***
Вечерняя комната

Я говорю сейчас словами теми,
Что только раз рождаются в душе.
Жужжит пчела на белой хризантеме,
Так душно пахнет старое саше.

И комната, где окна слишком узки,
Хранит любовь и помнит старину,
А над кроватью надпись по-французски
Гласит: "Seigneur, ayez pitie de nous»*.

Ты сказки давней горестных заметок,
Душа моя, не тронь и не ищи...
Смотрю, блестящих севрских статуэток
Померкли глянцевитые плащи.

Последний луч, и желтый и тяжелый,
Застыл в букете ярких георгин,
И как во сне я слышу звук виолы
И редкие аккорды клавесин.