“As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.”

– Federico Garcia Lorca

From The Tao Te Ching:
“Those who know don’t talk.

Those who talk don’t know.
Close your mouth,

block off your senses,

blunt your sharpness,

untie your knots,

soften your glare,

settle your dust.

This is the primal identity.
Be like the Tao.

It can’t be approached or withdrawn from,

benefited or harmed,

honored or brought into disgrace.

It gives itself up continually.

That is why it endures.”

Listening to Rena Jones new album Indra’s Web lately. It is her best, and that is saying alot. Support the artist, and hunt it down. I recommend it, and it will be reviewed in the new edition of The Invisible College soon-ish.

Progenitors: Homage To Max Ernst

Collage is the noble conquest of the irrational, the coupling of two realities, irreconcilable in appearance, upon a plane which apparently does not suit them.

-Max Ernst
Artist are often pigeon-holed into one school of expression or another. Some going voluntarily, others kicking and screaming. Some bridge schools, and the ones that steal the most successfully, begin schools. (or so it is said…)
Sometimes, it is just a matter of realizing and saluting who your influences are. I have found that I have several, but one in particular stands out with the recent work that I have been working on: Max Ernst. A giant, and I only discovered him because of my first great art crush: Sätty. Sätty borrowed from Ernst, and I have borrowed inspiration from Sätty. There, I said it. Nothing original except in application of my awareness to the art form. Of course, I no longer use the tried and true methods that both Sätty & Ernst used. The computer is my medium, and one that I love. A blessing on Photoshop!
In a conversation I had with the friend of Sätty and the conservator of Satty’s estate Walter Medeiros, Walter said that he could not see a direct connection between my work and Sätty’s. I guess that I have been moving the collage formula into another direction, but my inspiration still lies with the classic works. Other artist have mentioned that they can see the connection. Funnily enough, they mention Ernst more often than not. I take that as a compliment btw.
You can readily see the influence that Ernst had on Sätty. One of the great criticisms of Satty was that his work appeared to be derivative of Ernst, which may or may not be true, but as time went along, you could see a divergence in application with Sätty’s collages. His last works were breath-taking.
Ernst was an original. His illustrated novels, paintings and other works stand out in the Surrealist Pantheon. His works with collage may indeed have been the biggest contribution to modern art through the Surrealist stream. Through Sätty, Max Ernst stepped forward and whispered into my ear. We all have influences, and we should recognize them, and celebrate them.

I started this entry around the Mimi & Richard Farina clips from Pete Seegers’ show in the mid-60′s. I admit, as a young man Mimi was better than sliced bread with jam on it. The fact that she could sing and play guitar well just added spice to it all. The reality of that I never had met her, and she was older, as well married to a brilliant partner didn’t complicate matters so much in my young mind. (There is a brilliant antiwar poster of her and her lovely sister as well as a friend from 67′: “Girls Say Yes To boys who say no”.)
Her husband Richard Farina was quite the Bohemian package. It has been said that between him, Bob Dylan, and the Baez sisters Mimi and Joan, they redefined beat into its 60′s manifestation. I can’t disagree with that, and I understand there is a book on it: “Positively 4th Street”. I am looking for a copy out of curiosity. I suggest Richard Farina’s book as well: “Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me”… this is a brilliant novelization of his early days.
I think you will find the music that Richard & Mimi made very interesting. It illuminated my days and nights when I was in my first youth, and I still find it beautiful today. Mimi died a few years back in her mid 50′s. After Richards death she still performed for awhile, but her crowning success is “Bread & Roses”… I find her work with prisoners to be a great inspiration. She lived a full life, and touched many including a young kid years ago.
This Entries Literary Theme: Turkish… through a folktale, and revisiting with Nazim Hikmet, we re-enter the stream of Turkish art. More to come, I keep discovering greater, and greater depths. This is such a great delight! If I could only devote more time to it!
Well, I have been working on this entry long enough, work is calling and the day is beautiful.
Bright Blessings,

On The Menu:

The Links

Mimi & Richard Farina performing “Dopico” and “Celebration For A Grey Day”

Max Ernst Quotes

Turkish Fairy Tales: Sister and Brother

Richard & Mimi Farina – “Bold Marauder”

The Poetry of Nazim Hikmet

Mimi & Richard Farina performing “Pack Up Your Sorrows” and a small chat with Mimi

Art: Max Ernst

Bio: Max Ernst


The Links:

The Mayor of 7th Avenue…..

Glass Frog?

The Plant That Pretends To Be Ill

Solstice At Stonehenge…

Talking To The Plants..

Mimi & Richard Farina performing “Dopico” and “Celebration For A Grey Day”

Max Ernst Quotes:

“Painting is not for me either decorative amusement, or the plastic invention of felt reality; it must be every time: invention, discovery, revelation.”

“You can drink the images with your eyes.”

“When the artist finds himself he is lost. The fact that he has succeeded in never finding himself is regarded by Max Ernst as his only lasting achievement. “

“All good ideas arrive by chance.”

“Woman’s nudity is wiser than the philosopher’s teachings.”



Turkish Fairy Tales: Sister and Brother
There once lived a man named Ahmed Aga. He was very rich, and beside his wife had no one belonging to him. The only thing that disturbed his happiness was the fact that he had no child. “Allah,” said he, “has endowed me with much property and wealth; I have also an honourable name; would that He might vouchsafe me a child! Then were my happiness complete. After my death he would inherit my whole fortune, and my fame would be enhanced.”
One night he was brooding as usual over this matter and said to his wife: “Would it not have been better if Allah had given us poverty with a child?” These words pained his wife very deeply, and before she went to bed she prayed to Allah for consolation, In the night she dreamt that she was sitting by the sea-shore. A mermaid came to the surface of the water with a pot in her hand and said to the woman “Tell your husband Allah has given him this kismet; let him come and fetch it.” She hastened home to tell her husband and in her excitement woke Ahmed Aga as well as herself. “What is the matter?” asked the man. “Nothing,” answered the woman; “but you have waked me.”
“No,” returned the man, “it was you who roused me.” Then his wife recounted what she had seen and heard in her dream. “Then that was why you woke me,” muttered her husband, and turning over went to sleep again. To his wife, however, the dream was a thing of good omen.
Rising next morning, the woman advised her husband to go down to the seashore. “It might be no vain dream after all,” she mused. “Do not be foolish,” retorted her husband, “our kismet is not in dreams; if Allah has any gift to bestow on us He will do it by other means.” His wife, how. ever, gave him no peace. “Nevertheless go,” she insisted; “the sea will not engulf you, and maybe Allah will bless us in this wise.” The man could not further withstand his wife, so when he went out for a stroll, he took the direction of the seashore.
While pacing up and down he noticed that some dark object was being washed ashore on the crest of the billows. As it came nearer he could see that it was a pot, the mouth of which was securely bound. Alternating betwixt hope and fear, he seized the pot and with a bismillah opened it. Imagine his joy to find therein two newborn babes. When Ahmed Aga saw them he was like a child himself; in his delight he knew not what to do first. Taking off his cloak, he wrapped the babes carefully in it and ran all the way home. He arrived out of breath, and dropped the bundle in his wife’s lap. When she opened it and saw what it contained she too was frantic with joy, kissing the children and pressing them to her heart. The babes being hungry soon began to cry lustily. This brought the worthy couple to their senses, and soon Ahmed was on the road in search of a nurse for their unexpected family. Before long he found a suitable woman, and engaged her at a very generous wage. As soon as she arrived the cries of the infants were stilled immediately. On the following day two more nurses were engaged, and thus cared for the children, a boy and a girl, grew fat and strong.
In another town there was likewise a man who had no children, although, like Ahmed Aga, he greatly desired a son. So he and his wife prayed earnestly to Allah that he would give them a child, and when they learned that their prayers were to be answered, their rejoicing was unbounded. The good news came to the ears of a servant who at one time had been in that household, but having been dismissed by the wife for neglecting her duties, she was desperately jealous at the happiness which was coming to her former mistress. Determined to take her revenge, she presented herself as a nurse, and was engaged. In due time twin babies, a boy and a girl, were born; but while their mother was sleeping, and before ever their father had seen them, the false nurse put the children into a pot, and having sealed it carefully, cast it into the sea. While the husband was sleeping, the false woman sat by him and whispered in his ear so that he thought it was a dream sent by Allah. She told him that he had been deceived and had, after all, no child. As the mother had been asleep, she could not tell what had become of her children, and certainly they were nowhere to be found. So the husband, believing his dream, was very angry at what he thought was his wife’s attempt to deceive him, and he drove her out of his house. The poor creature had not a friend in the world, and went forth weeping bitterly.
She wandered on from one hill to another, until one day, although it was dark, it seemed as though each hill was a different colour from the others. Fear seized upon her heart and tears started from her eyes. Hunger and fatigue overcame her, and she knew not what to do. Seeing a tree, she climbed up to spend the night in it and await Allah’s pleasure toward her. Having settled herself among the leafy branches, she wept herself to sleep. When morning dawned she descended in the hope of meeting with a passer by or coming to a village where she might obtain a little bread.
But, alas! no aid was nigh, and after wandering for many hours she sank down from sheer exhaustion. Presently, however, she saw in the distance a shepherd, and, summoning the remainder of her little strength, she accosted him. Offering her bread, the shepherd asked her trouble. When he had heard it he took pity upon her and led her home to his wife, his son, and his daughter.
As time went on the poor woman had almost forgotten her sorrow, excepting her grief for the loss of her children, over whom she often sighed and wept. How fared they in the meantime?
With the good Ahmed Aga and his wife they grew up to their fourteenth year and went together to school. One day the boy was playing with a companion, who, jealous of his superiority over him, said: “Be off, you fatherless and motherless brat, found by Ahmed Aga on the seashore.” At these words the boy’s brow became clouded, and he ran away angrily to his foster-mother, telling her what had been said to him. She endeavoured to calm him, but that same night the boy dreamt of the shepherd’s hut and of his mother, who in the dream related all her sufferings. When he repeated the dream to his sister, lo! she also had had a similar dream. Then the boy knew that what his playfellows had taunted him with was no untruth, but the fact. They went together to their kind foster-father and told him what they had both dreamt. The good man was troubled, but confessed that he had indeed found them in a pot washed up by the waves; of their mother he knew nothing. The brother and sister were in despair at the thought of their poor mother living in a shepherd’s cottage. It was impossible to comfort them, and finally the boy declared his intention of setting out to find his mother. His sister was left behind in the kind hands of her foster-parents.
Spurred on by his heroic courage and anxiety for his mother, the boy made all haste, and as he lay down to rest under the stars one night the place of his mother’s sojourn was revealed to him in a dream. To cut our story shorter, we will only say that in one day he covered a five-days, journey without experiencing either hunger or fear. As he followed the course indicated in his dream he found his further progress barred by a hideous dragon. The boy had no weapon, but picking up a large stone he flung it at the ugly beast with such tremendous force that the creature reeled backward and fell to the earth. “If you are a man throw another stone at me,” shouted the dragon; but the youth went his way, leaving the dragon to perish.
Indefatigably the boy travelled, and in due time reached the valley where his mother had once spent the night in a tree. Here he stopped, and at the foot of the tree sought the rest that had long been denied him. W
hile he slept, the brother of the dead dragon, having heard what had happened, came in search of the boy. The monster’s heavy strides caused the earth to tremble and awoke the youth. “I am certain you are the youth who has killed my brother,” began the dragon. “Now it is my turn.” Saying this, with jaws foaming and fire issuing from his nostrils, he sprang upon the lad. In self-defence the youth grasped the dragon’s foreleg, using such strength that he tore it from the body and flung it away. Then the dragon sank down weakening from loss of blood, saying: “To him who has taken my life belongs my treasure.” The unwieldy beast rolled over and over and finally disappeared into a cavern at the foot of a mountain.
Prompted by curiosity, the youth glanced into the mouth of the cavern and saw a staircase leading downward. Descending, he found a palace,
which he entered and explored in all directions. In one apartment was a maiden sitting on a throne–a maiden so lovely that his heart was a thou sand times filled with love of her. On her part the maiden was enraptured with the youth’s comeliness; but, not knowing of the dragon’s destruction, she cried: “Woe unto us! If the dragon sees this youth he will kill us both.” Then addressing the youth she asked: “How came you into this palace of the Breathless Dragon? Whomsoever he looks upon is slain by his mere glance.”
Now the youth related to the maiden how he had slain both dragons, and he besought her to come away with him. As she appeared not to comprehend, he repeated his words and urged her to hasten, as he had other business to fulfil. “That being so,” said the maiden at last, “there is much here that we might take away with us.” The maiden leading the way and the youth following, they entered the forty rooms of the palace, each of which was filled with gold, diamonds, and precious stones. However, the youth said: “My dear, I have first an important duty to perform; when that is done, we will return and take away as much of this treasure as we please.”
Thus they departed, and at some distance saw the shepherd’s hut which sheltered the youth’s mother. At once he recognised it as the building seen in his dream. Hurrying up, he knocked at the door, and it was opened by his mother herself. Each recognised the other from their dreams, and they fell into each other’s arms.
Next morning they all set off together for the dragon’s palace. On the backs of the horse and donkey they brought with them, they packed as many sacks of gold and diamonds as the animals could possibly carry. Then they hastened, with brief pauses for rest, to the home of Ahmed Aga, where the youth rejoined his sister and the mother saw her daughter. Now the joyful woman was repaid for all her past sufferings, and they all lived happily together for many years.
The worthy shepherd’s son was betrothed to the youth’s sister, while the youth himself was betrothed to the maiden of the dragon’s palace. A suitable husband was found for the shepherd’s daughter, and they were all married on the same day, the festivities lasting forty days and forty nights, and their happiness for ever.



Richard & Mimi Farina – “Bold Marauder”

The Poetry of Nazim Hikmet

Hymn To Life

The hair falling on your forehead

suddenly lifted.

Suddenly something stirred on the ground.

The trees are whispering

in the dark.

Your bare arms will be cold.
Far off

where we can’t see,

the moon must be rising.

It hasn’t reached us yet,

slipping through the leaves

to light up your shoulder.

But I know

a wind comes up with the moon.

The trees are whispering.

Your bare arms will be cold.
From above,

from the branches lost in the dark,

something dropped at your feet.

You moved closer to me.

Under my hand your bare flesh is like the fuzzy skin of a fruit.

Neither a song of the heart nor “common sense”–

before the trees, birds, and insects,

my hand on my wife’s flesh

is thinking.

Tonight my hand

can’t read or write.

Neither loving nor unloving…

It’s the tongue of a leopard at a spring,

a grape leaf,

a wolf’s paw.

To move, breathe, eat, drink.

My hand is like a seed

splitting open underground.

Neither a song of the heart nor “common sense,”

neither loving nor unloving.

My hand thinking on my wife’s flesh

is the hand of the first man.

Like a root that finds water underground,

it says to me:

“To eat, drink, cold, hot, struggle, smell, color–

not to live in order to die

but to die to live…”
And now

as red female hair blows across my face,

as something stirs on the ground,

as the trees whisper in the dark,

and as the moon rises far off

where we can’t see,

my hand on my wife’s flesh

before the trees, birds, and insects,

I want the right of life,

of the leopard at the spring, of the seed splitting open–

I want the right of the first man.

On Living


Living is no laughing matter:

you must live with great seriousness

like a squirrel, for example–

I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,

I mean living must be your whole occupation.

Living is no laughing matter:

you must take it seriously,

so much so and to such a degree

that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,

your back to the wall,

or else in a laboratory

in your white coat and safety glasses,

you can die for people–

even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,

even though you know living

is the most real, the most beautiful thing.

I mean, you must take living so seriously

that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant

olive trees–

and not for your children, either,

but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,

because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

Let’s say you’re seriously ill, need surgery–

which is to say we might not get

from the white table.

Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad

about going a little too soon,

we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,

we’ll look out the window to see it’s raining,

or still wait anxiously

for the latest newscast …

Let’s say we’re at the front–

for something worth fighting for, say.

There, in the first offensive, on that very day,

we might fall on our face, dead.

We’ll know this with a curious anger,

but we’ll still worry ourselves to death

about the outcome of the war, which could last years.

Let’s say we’re in prison

and close to fifty,

and we have eighteen more years, say,

before the iron doors will open.

We’ll still live with the outside,

with its people and animals, struggle and wind–

I mean with the outside beyond the walls.

I mean, however and wherever we are,

we must live as if we will never die.

This earth will grow cold,

a star among stars

and one of the smallest,

a gilded mote on blue velvet–

I mean this, our great earth.

This earth will grow cold one day,

not like a block of ice

or a dead cloud even

but like an empty walnut it will roll along

in pitch-black space …

You must grieve for this right now

–you have to feel this sorrow now–

for the world must be loved this much

if you’re going to say “I lived” …

Things I Didn’t Know I Loved
it’s 1962 March 28th

I’m sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train

night is falling

I never knew I liked

night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain

I don’t like

comparing nightfall to a tired bird
I didn’t know I loved the earth

can someone who hasn’t worked the earth love it

I’ve never worked the earth

it must be my only Platonic love
and here I’ve loved rivers all this time

whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills

European hills crowned with chateaus

or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see

I know you can’t wash in the same river even once

I know the river will bring new lights you’ll never see

I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow

I know this has troubled people before

and will trouble those after me

I know all this has been said a thousand times before

and will be said after me
I didn’t know I loved the sky

cloudy or clear

the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino

in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish

I hear voices

not from the blue vault but from the yard

the guards are beating someone again

I didn’t know I loved trees

bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino

they come upon me in winter noble and modest

beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish

“the poplars of Izmir

losing their leaves. . .

they call me The Knife. . .

lover like a young tree. . .

I blow stately mansions sky-high”

in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief

to a pine bough for luck
I never knew I loved roads

even the asphalt kind

Vera’s behind the wheel we’re driving from Moscow to the Crimea


formerly “Goktepé ili” in Turkish

the two of us inside a closed box

the world flows past on both sides distant and mute

I was never so close to anyone in my life

bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé

when I was eighteen

apart from my life I didn’t have anything in the wagon they could take

and at eighteen our lives are what we value least

I’ve written this somewhere before

wading through a dark muddy street I’m going to the shadow play

Ramazan night

a paper lantern leading the way

maybe nothing like this ever happened

maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy

going to the shadow play

Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather’s hand

his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat

with a sable collar over his robe

and there’s a lantern in the servant’s hand

and I can’t contain myself for joy

flowers come to mind for some reason

poppies cactuses jonquils

in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika

fresh almonds on her breath

I was seventeen

my heart on a swing touched the sky

I didn’t know I loved flowers

friends sent me three red carnations in prison
I just remembered the stars

I love them too

whether I’m floored watching them from below

or whether I’m flying at their side
I have some questions for the cosmonauts

were the stars much bigger

did they look like huge jewels on black velvet

or apricots on orange

did you feel proud to get closer to the stars

I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don’t

be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract

well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to

say they were terribly figurative and concrete

my heart was in my mouth looking at them

they are our endless desire to grasp things

seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad

I never knew I loved the cosmos
snow flashes in front of my eyes

both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind

I didn’t know I liked snow
I never knew I loved the sun

even when setting cherry-red as now

in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors

but you aren’t about to paint it that way

I didn’t know I loved the sea

except the Sea of Azov

or how much
I didn’t know I loved clouds

whether I’m under or up above them

whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts
moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois

strikes me

I like it
I didn’t know I liked rain

whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my

heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop

and takes off for uncharted countries I didn’t know I loved

rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting

by the window on the Prague-Berlin train

is it because I lit my sixth cigarette

one alone could kill me

is it because I’m half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow

her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue
the train plunges on through the pitch-black night

I never knew I liked the night pitch-black

sparks fly from the engine

I didn’t know I loved sparks

I didn’t know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty

to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train

watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return
19 April 1962



Last Will And Testament

Comrades, if I don’t live to see the day

– I mean,if I die before freedom comes –

take me away

and bury me in a village cemetery in Anatolia.
The worker Osman whom Hassan Bey ordered shot

can lie on one side of me, and on the other side

the martyr Aysha, who gave birth in the rye

and died inside of forty days.
Tractors and songs can pass below the cemetery –

in the dawn light, new people, the smell of burnt gasoline,

fields held in common, water in canals,

no drought or fear of the police.
Of course, we won’t hear those songs:

the dead lie stretched out underground

and rot like black branches,

deaf, dumb, and blind under the earth.
But, I sang those songs

before they were written,

I smelled the burnt gasoline

before the blueprints for the tractors were drawn.
As for my neighbors,

the worker Osman and the martyr Aysha,

they felt the great longing while alive,

maybe without even knowing it.
Comrades, if I die before that day, I mean

– and it’s looking more and more likely –

bury me in a village cemetery in Anatolia,

and if there’s one handy,

a plane tree could stand at my head,

I wouldn’t need a stone or anything.
Moscow, Barviha Hospital


Max Ernst Bio:

Max Ernst was born on April 2, 1891 in Brühl, near Cologne. Ernst began studying classical philology but then became interested in art and literature through the 1912 Cologne Sonderbund Exhibit and his friendship with August Macke, whom he met in 1910-11. He became acquainted with the ‘Blaue Reiter’, Apollinaire, Delaunay, Georges Grosz and Wieland Herzfelde as well as Hans Arp.
He fought in World War I in France and Poland, and recovered from clinical death, an experience which was to deepen his decision to take up art. Married the art historian Luise Straus (1918) and the next year, visited Paul Klee and created his first paintings, block prints and collages, and experimented with mixed media. Along with J. T. Baargeld and Hans Arp, he founded the Cologne Dada group, and in 1921 was invited by André Breton to Paris, where he befriended Tristan Tzara and Sophie Taeuber.
A year later, he moved there and illustrated the collage-novel Les Malheurs des immortels, to which Paul Éluard provided the texts. Illustrated further books of poetry by Eluard (1923) and created 17 wall murals for Eluard’s house in Eaubonne (rediscovered in the 60′s and exhibited).
In 1925 Ernst developed the frottage technique as it would be employed in his entire work process thereafter until his later graphic works. It was during this period that he created his series Histoire Naturelle, Bird Paintings, and Forests, and in 1926, the sets for Sergei Diaghilev’s Russian Ballet. He collaborated with Joan Miró, and then with Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí on the film l’Age d’Or.
In 1927 he married Marie-Berthe Aurenche. Two years later, he created another collage-novel La Femme à 100 Têtes. His first exhibit in New York took place in 1931. Spent time in Maloja with Alberto Giacometti (1934) and created the collage-novel Une Semaine de Bonté. Began using the décalcomanie technique – a sort of decal painting (1936) and did the set decoration for Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Enchaîné (1937). In the mean time, his work was being confiscated in Germany.
Ernst joined Leonora Carrington, and moved to southern France, Saint-Martin d’Ardèche in 1938. In 1939, he was sent to a concentration camp but set free again by Eluard’s appeal. The very next year he was again sent to a concentration camp, this one in Aix-en-Provence, from which he attempted to escape twice.
Emigrated to the USA (1941), settled in New York and married the art collector Peggy Guggenheim. He began exhibiting in 1942 and met with other émigrés such as David Hare, André Breton and Marcel Duchamp. Began working on new plastic art (1944). Met the artist Dorothea Tanning (1942), they took life-time vows to each other in 1946 and moved to Sedona, Arizona. He wrote the treatise Beyond Painting (1948) and only returned to Europe on a visit in 1949-50.
A retrospective of his works was held on his 60th birthday in Brühl (though he rejected the honorary citizenship later offered to him). Guest lecturer in Hawaii. In 1953 he returned to Paris but was excluded from the Surrealist circle. At the 27th Biennial in Venice (1954), received the first prize, which helped him to get financially back on his feet. Settled in Touraine in 1955 and became a French citizen in 1958.
On his 70th birthday, his work was shown in various exhibitions, among others at the Tate Gallery in London and the Wallraf-Richartz Museum in Cologne. In 1963 he and his wife Dorothea Tanning moved to the southern French town of Seilans. A retrospective was held at the Kunsthaus in Zurich. In 1964, his graphic series ‘Maximiliana’ printed, an important work. He designed stage sets and a fountain for the city of Ambois (1968). In 1975, retrospective at the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in New York, and the Galeries Nationales du Grand-Palais in Paris published a complete catalogue of his works, the Spies / Leppien Catalogue. A book in two volumes on his graphic work from 1906-1925 published.
Max Ernst died on April 1, 1976 in Paris

Mimi & Richard Farina performing “Pack Up Your Sorrows” and a small chat with Mimi


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