#designrabrooks

Travail en cours pour les portes ouvertes des ateliers de #liliandaubisse et #designrabrooks | 70 rue Alexandre Desrousseaux 50160 #lomme | 13 Oct 10-19h et 24/15 Oct 10-12h et 14-19h (at Lomme)

Detail from #workinprogress : Portes ouvertes des ateliers de #liliandaubisse et #designrabrooks | 70 rue Alexandre Desrousseaux 50160 #lomme | 13 Oct 10-19h et 24/15 Oct 10-12h et 14-19h (at Lomme)

Portes ouvertes des ateliers de #liliandaubisse et #designrabrooks | 70 rue Alexandre Desrousseaux 50160 #lomme | 13 Oct 10-19h et 24/15 Oct 10-12h et 14-19h (at Lomme)

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A poem that spent 150 years buried in the heart of Silbury Hill in Wiltshire, one of the most enigmatic prehistoric monuments in Europe, was written by a teenage girl, William Wordsworth's second cousin Emmeline Fisher. Emmie’s poem was placed in an envelope with the following inscription, on the obverse, in the same hand (hers?) as the poem itself - Lines on the Opening of Silbury Hill, written by Miss Emmeline Fisher, Daughter of The Reverend William Fisher, Canon of Salisbury and Rector of Poulshot in Wiltshire August 1849. The poem in the urn: Suggested by the opening made in Silbury Hill, Aug 3rd 1849 Bones of our wild forefathers, O forgive, If now we pierce the chambers of your rest, And open your dark pillows to the eye Of the irreverent Day! Hark, as we move, Runs no stern whisper through the narrow vault? Flickers no shape across our torch-light pale, With backward beckoning arm? No, all is still. O that it were not! O that sound or sign, Vision, or legend, or the eagle glance Of science, could call back thy history lost, Green Pyramid of the plains, from far-ebbed Time! O that the winds which kiss thy flowery turf Could utter how they first beheld thee rise; When in his toil the jealous Savage paused, Drew deep his chest, pushed back his yellow hair, And scanned the growing hill with reverent gaze, - Or haply, how they gave their fitful pipe To join the chant prolonged o’er warriors cold. - Or how the Druid’s mystic robe they swelled; Or from thy blackened brow on wailing wing The solemn sacrificial ashes bore, To strew them where now smiles the yellow corn, Or where the peasant treads the Churchward path. Emmeline Fisher (1825-1864)

Few gathered at the banks of the river to gaze at the gilded gold neptunes, the glittering every-ten-minutes-on-the-hour tower or balk at the blazing blue lights of les bateaux. Through the arch a passing car, cruising for gutter life, broke the salty silence beneath the bridge. It was at night that these two parallel worlds found more reason to break each other's skin. Those from below sometimes ventured to the upper realm, disturbing the surface ripples of polite society, while, from time to time, temptation lured otherwise rational beings into its infernal bosom. He regarded the metal door like it was a gate to damnation, the velvet red light seeping through the ironwork as though the devil's own smithy cast its flaming shadows to the surface. The question remained, for the time being, in his head: to prostrate himself before the unholy circus as only an adept ought, or to return to the surface and risk the effects of the bends…

The south fountain at Place de la Concorde, Paris, closer to the Seine, represents the seas, with figures representing the Atlantic and the Mediterranean; harvesting coral; harvesting fish; collecting shellfish; collecting pearls; and the geniuses of astronomy, navigation and commerce.

mr whippy on Flickr.