Charles Winzer -
CHARLES WINZER
You'll see me at Winzer it must be love that master (he has a taste for Tintoretto, El Greco, Primatice), an extended love, varied, restated by life, a free performance and broad, rich and dull color, so despleen greedy, sadness sensual.
What say you, traveler, country and stations?
Will you finally pick boredom, as it is ripe,
You that there smoking a cigar sullen
Projecting an absurd shadow on the wall? ...
The painter leaves a party (after many others "in strange countries"). An air punch the flames in the face. The ramp gives a little blue light. Dawn rises, full of moorhens and lophophores. She dispelled the dance of death that ran in the halls and gardens of the mansion. The ghost of Weber brings the trap ages. Skeletons have applied top hat, they collected all these instruments work which we do not yet know the final word, the head bowling, these compasses, these covered, these outfits bones, and they've put everything that everyone in the tray. Silence. They are all lying now in their box, like a musical instrument. One hears more birds awakening, full of naive questions. The poet, tired but tense, wins the docks. Delicious moment, the collar turned up, first cigarette, turn rhapsodic ... Yesterday love ... Scramble polished reveries and dreams. Docks, Saint-Cloud, Versailles, a souvenir which flutters and slips through your fingers. (At this point, where is she?) Yesterday firefighter Medrano looked a warrior Bovines ... Adrienne Monnier like a heroine of the French Revolution ... In front of the Seine running bankfull, sulphurous. On the other side, the Quai de Bethune where the friend lives Chanvin. By the gate of the Jardin des Plantes, one sees a species of zebu, still and heavy, like a piece of furniture landed by the gods, without compensation, head down, and sad birds that make the big back near their rock photographer, and trumpet crane and the white peacock spreads the floor as there are actresses in a train station at night, or as mundane surprises rounded up and kept in a corner with their evening coat, there is nothing to do but wait.
Gaboriaud, which is also a painter, is a large net balance, a large marine grease, colored complexion, well scraped face, long and thin strokes move in order as by belts. Winzer's face seems motionless. (English Oppose a look at sites angry ...) But Winzer is a tender dandy. If you look better, you know that any trait, most small flat surface seems to move on up, imperceptibly, sensitivity to lights worried, a desire, an emotion content. He blushed, she goes out, here it is: he has a new hat taupeline flesh, dressed, and soft to the touch like a young dog, black ribbon, a little wide, a marvel ... between Clark, swayed by his cane and laughing like a Waterjet ... avid music. You never played the First Quartet Borodin, the Unfinished Symphony has featured four times in the program ten years, never plays quartets on Fridays Glazounow, and Eastern Rapsodie was not played in Paris since the exposure 89. "I eat my head!"
You'll see me at Winzer it must be love that master (he has a taste for Tintoretto, El Greco, Primatice), an extended love, varied, restated by life, a free performance and broad, rich and dull color, so despleen greedy, sadness sensual.
What say you, traveler, country and stations?
Will you finally pick boredom, as it is ripe,
You that there smoking a cigar sullen
Projecting an absurd shadow on the wall? ...
The painter leaves a party (after many others "in strange countries"). An air punch the flames in the face. The ramp gives a little blue light. Dawn rises, full of moorhens and lophophores. She dispelled the dance of death that ran in the halls and gardens of the mansion. The ghost of Weber brings the trap ages. Skeletons have applied top hat, they collected all these instruments work which we do not yet know the final word, the head bowling, these compasses, these covered, these outfits bones, and they've put everything that everyone in the tray. Silence. They are all lying now in their box, like a musical instrument. One hears more birds awakening, full of naive questions. The poet, tired but tense, wins the docks. Delicious moment, the collar turned up, first cigarette, turn rhapsodic ... Yesterday love ... Scramble polished reveries and dreams. Docks, Saint-Cloud, Versailles, a souvenir which flutters and slips through your fingers. (At this point, where is she?) Yesterday firefighter Medrano looked a warrior Bovines ... Adrienne Monnier like a heroine of the French Revolution ... In front of the Seine running bankfull, sulphurous. On the other side, the Quai de Bethune where the friend lives Chanvin. By the gate of the Jardin des Plantes, one sees a species of zebu, still and heavy, like a piece of furniture landed by the gods, without compensation, head down, and sad birds that make the big back near their rock photographer, and trumpet crane and the white peacock spreads the floor as there are actresses in a train station at night, or as mundane surprises rounded up and kept in a corner with their evening coat, there is nothing to do but wait.
Gaboriaud, which is also a painter, is a large net balance, a large marine grease, colored complexion, well scraped face, long and thin strokes move in order as by belts. Winzer's face seems motionless. (English Oppose a look at sites angry ...) But Winzer is a tender dandy. If you look better, you know that any trait, most small flat surface seems to move on up, imperceptibly, sensitivity to lights worried, a desire, an emotion content. He blushed, she goes out, here it is: he has a new hat taupeline flesh, dressed, and soft to the touch like a young dog, black ribbon, a little wide, a marvel ... between Clark, swayed by his cane and laughing like a Waterjet ... avid music. You never played the First Quartet Borodin, the Unfinished Symphony has featured four times in the program ten years, never plays quartets on Fridays Glazounow, and Eastern Rapsodie was not played in Paris since the exposure 89. "I eat my head!"
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