Modernist, er, Monday: Se hace camino al sonreír

Antonio Machado does not smile. Here he is chillin' in a hat, resolutely not smiling. OK, you say, but maybe it was just a bad day. Maybe he was just crossing the Pyrenees on foot and half-dead that day. I wouldn't smile about that.


But here's the thing. He's marrying his beloved child/French-student-bride in this picture, and he's STILL NOT SMILING. It's basically the happiest day of his life, and he just can't turn up the corners of his mouth to express that. Even Ian Curtis smiled when he got married, Antonio, or at least he tried really hard. She's only 16, and she's certainly not going to die of consumption two years later. So why so sad?




Luckily, when the Spanish government put an engraving of Machado on a postage stamp, they added just a little smile, even though it doesn't seem to be based on any actual photos of him. Let's hope that wherever Machado is now, he can manage at least that. I think he's earned it.

Modernist Friday: Lights of Bohemia 2—Electric Boogaloo.

Get ready for an extra steamy post today as we fin your siècle with Verlaine AND Rimbaud! Verlaine abandons his wife and infant son to be with Rimbaud, then shoots him in the wrist in a jealous rage! Rimbaud retaliates by writing "A Season in Hell," calling Verlaine his "pitiful brother" and "mad virgin!" Verlaine, meanwhile, goes to jail and converts to Catholicism! RImbaud gets his leg amputated even though it doesn't need to be, then dies of cancer after a few experiments with Ethiopian trading! And mistresses! Verlaine dies a few years later in a haze of absinthe and bohemian misery! And despite all that, neither one of them is very happy!
Guess it doesn't work out when the glassy-eyed new-wave superstar (that's RImbaud) gets together with the mysterious martial arts master (Verlaine and his trademark fu-manchu). Or does it? Find out on my new soap opera, Symbolistes Maudîtes!








So what's the good news here? It's that Verlaine can still find solace in alcohol Look at that adorable almost-smile!

That's what I call a happy modernist!