Igor Talwinski | Ballet dancers

Igor Talwinski (1907-1983) was a notable Polish-born French painter, active primarily in France and England, known for his portraits and figure studies, particularly female figures.

His work is characterized by a figurative style, with soft modeling of faces and bodies often contrasted by lively brushwork in the backgrounds.

He was mobilized in September 1939 and was taken prisoner by the Germans.

I sogni magici di Tomasz Kopera, 1976

Tomasz "Alen" Kopera è un pittore Polacco, rappresentante del Realismo Magico.

Laureato in ingegneria civile presso l'Università di Scienza e Tecnologia di Breslavia, nel 2005 si è trasferito in Irlanda del Nord, dove ha vissuto e lavorato per oltre un decennio.

Attualmente vive in Polonia.

Il suo talento artistico si manifesta fin dalla prima infanzia.

Yarek Godfrey | Magic realism painter

Yarek Gofrey (real name Jaroslaw Pawel Nowicki, Olsztyn, Poland 1957 - Paris, 2014) was a Polish artist of French, British and Austrian origins.

In 1982 he graduated from the Academy of Fine Arts in Cracow and the Studies for Stage Costume design for theater in Cracow.

In 1983 he moved to Paris, where he lived until his death in 2014.

Wisława Szymborska | Hatred

See how efficient it still is,

how it keeps itself in shape -

our century’s hatred.

How easily it vaults the tallest obstacles.

How rapidly it pounces, tracks us down.

It is not like other feelings.

At once both older and younger.

René Magritte

Donizetti: L'elisir d'amore | Act 2: "Una furtiva lagrima"

"Una furtiva lagrima" (A furtive tear) is the romanza from act 2, scene 8 of the Italian opera L'elisir d'amore by Gaetano Donizetti.

It is sung by Nemorino (tenor) when it appears that the love potion he bought to win the heart of his dream lady, Adina, is working.

He loves Adina, but she is not interested in an innocent, rustic man such as he.

Ponziano Loverini | Portrait of Gaetano Doninzetti, 1877

Love Letter from Balzac to Countess Ewelina Hańska

My beloved angel,

I am nearly mad about you, as much as one can be mad: I cannot bring together two ideas that you do not interpose yourself between them.

I can no longer think of nothing but you. In spite of myself, my imagination carries me to you.

I grasp you, I kiss you, I caress you, a thousand of the most amorous caresses take possession of me.

As for my heart, there you will always be - very much so. I have a delicious sense of you there.

But my God, what is to become of me, if you have deprived me of my reason?

Lorenzo Bartolini | Buste d'Ewelina Hańska, 1837 | Musée Bertrand, à Châteauroux, France

Wisława Szymborska | Ruben's Women

Herculasses, a feminine fauna.

Naked as the crashing of barrels.

Cooped up atop trampled beds.

They sleep with mouths poised to crow.

Their pupils have retreated in the depths,

and penetrate to the heart of their glands,

trickling yeast into their blood.

Peter Paul Rubens | Venus in Front of the Mirror, (1614-1615) | Museo Nacional del Prado

Daughters of the Baroque. Dough bloats in a bowl,

baths are steaming, wines are blushing.

piglets of cloud are dashing across the sky,

trumpets neigh in physical alarm.

O pumpkinned, O excessive ones,

doubled by your unveiling,

trebled by your violent poses,

fat love dishes.

Peter Paul Rubens | Mars and Rhea Silvia, 1617

Their skinny sisters got up earlier,

before dawn broke within the painting,

and no one saw them walking single file

on the unpainted side of the canvas.

Exiles of style. Ribs all counted.

Birdlike feet and hands.

They try to ascend on gaunt shoulderblades.

The thirteenth century would have given them a golden backdrop.

The twentieth, a silver screen.

But the seventeenth has nothing for the flat-chested.

For even the sky curves in relief -

curvaceous angles, a curvaceous god -

a moustached Apollo astride a sweaty steed

enters the steaming bedchamber.

Wisława Szymborska (Polish poet, essayist, translato, and recipient of the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature, 1923-2012)

Wisława Szymborska | Non ce l’ho con la primavera, 1993

Non ce l'ho con la primavera

perché è tornata.

Non la incolpo

perché adempie come ogni anno

ai suoi doveri.

Marc Chagall | Fleurs de printemps, 1930