the open window

Pierre Bonnard
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view through the window

Raoul Dufy, 1925

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as against everything

Silence emerges from the sound of rain and spreads in a crescendo of gray monotony over the narrow street I contemplate. I’m sleeping while awake, standing by the window, leaning against it as against everything. I search in myself for the sensations I feel before these falling threads of darkly luminous water that stand out from the grimy building facades and especially from the open windows. And I don’t know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don’t know what to think or where I am.

 Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

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La Fenêtre Ouverte - Le Breau

Walter Gray, 1910
watercolour, 14 x 10.5 inches

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Fenêtre ouverte sur la mer

Pierre Bonnard

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the voice of the beauty of the world

Then indeed peace had come. Messages of peace breathed from the sea to the shore. Never to break its sleep any more, to lull it rather more deeply to rest, and whatever the dreamers dreamt holily, dreamt wisely, to confirm—what else was it murmuring—as Lily Briscoe laid her head on the pillow in the clean still room and heard the sea. Through the open window the voice of the beauty of the world came murmuring, too softly to hear exactly what it said—but what mattered if the meaning were plain? entreating the sleepers (the house was full again; Mrs Beckwith was staying there, also Mr Carmichael), if they would not actually come down to the beach itself at least to lift the blind and look out.

To the Lighthouse, V. Woolf 

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come to the open window

Put down the stationery,
come to the open window.
I'm holding a lamp up high
for you —
see me from this distance.

Wind walks over the dawning earth,
sweeping the sky clean.
Night is still picking up
its broken pieces along the street.
All flowers, all green twigs
will taste another morning frost,
though crimson dawn is not far away.

The sea smell is locked behind mountains,
they can't keep on robbing us of our youth.
And they won't delay us long.
Promise me — no tears.

Come to the window and meet me
if you feel lonely:
let's see each other's sad smile
and swap poems of struggle and joy.


Shu Ting

Stanislas at the window

Édouard Boubat, from A Gentle Eye

France, 1973

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ryokan's window (i)

In the evening of a thousand peaks, I close my eyes.
Among humans, myriad thoughts are trivial.
Serenely I sit on the mat.
In solitude I face an open window.
The incense has burned out and a dark night is long.
Dew is thick; my robe is thin.
Emerging from samadhi, I walk in the garden.
The moon has risen over the highest peak.

Ryokan
tr. Kazuaki Tanahashi

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of infinite richness, this life

Beauty anyhow. Not the crude beauty of the eye. It was not beauty pure and simple—Bedford Place leading into Russell Square. It was straightness and emptiness of course; the symmetry of a corridor; but it was also windows lit up, a piano, a gramophone sounding; a sense of pleasure-making hidden, but now and again emerging when, through the uncurtained window, the window left open, one saw parties sitting over tables, young people slowly circling, conversations between men and women, maids idly looking out (a strange comment theirs, when work was done), stockings drying on top ledges, a parrot, a few plants. Absorbing, mysterious, of infinite richness, this life.

V. Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

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reveries and memories at the open window

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

For Lucy had her work cut out for her. The doors would be taken off their hinges; Rumpelmayer's men were coming. And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning—fresh as if issued to children on a beach.

What a lark! What a plunge! For so it had always seemed to her, when, with a little squeak of the hinges, which she could hear now, she had burst open the French windows and plunged at Bourton into the open air. How fresh, how calm, stiller than this of course, the air was in the early morning; like the flap of a wave; the kiss of a wave; chill and sharp and yet (for a girl of eighteen as she then was) solemn, feeling as she did, standing there at the open window, that something awful was about to happen; looking at the flowers, at the trees with the smoke winding off them and the rooks rising, falling; standing and looking until Peter Walsh said, "Musing among the vegetables?"—was that it?—"I prefer men to cauliflowers"—was that it? He must have said it at breakfast one morning when she had gone out on to the terrace—Peter Walsh. He would be back from India one of these days, June or July, she forgot which, for his letters were awfully dull; it was his sayings one remembered; his eyes, his pocket-knife, his smile, his grumpiness and, when millions of things had utterly vanished—how strange it was!—a few sayings like this about cabbages.

Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway 

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...

Abandoned Room (Soviet Base, Szentkiralyszabadja, West Hungary, 2012)


Tamás Dezső
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spring windows

Josef Sudek

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the sound of a window opening

You hear 
The sound of a window opening
In the distance is the sea

The glistening boat
Lies in the dunes
In the distance        is the deep blue sea
Listen
That whisper you hear      is sound of the sea
         The boat lies in the dunes
In the distance stretches the deep blue sea



打開窗子的聲音

打開窗子的聲音
你聽見了
遠處是海
光滑的船
伏在沙丘上
遠處是        藍藍的海
你聽
最小的聲音        是海
       船伏在沙丘上
遠處是藍藍的一片

Gu Cheng

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de ma fenêtre

from the series De ma fenêtre, Ahae

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more

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urban may window

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