Imaginary

Visual Arts

• Norman Rockwell, Vacation Boy Riding a Goose (1943)
• Boris Kustodiev, Summer (1922)
• Frederic Edwin Church, Mount Katahdin from Millinocket Camp (1895)
• Konstantin Korovin, In a Summer Cottage (1895)
• Ivan Shishkin, Summer Day (1891)
• Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Summer Landscape (1875)
• David Burliuk, Summer Gardens near the House
• John Constable, Helmingham Dell

Music: songs and other short pieces

• Paul Simon, Take Me to the Mardi Gras
• Schubert, Das Einsiedelei (The Hermitage), D. 563: a man wishes he could take refuge.

Music: Composers, artists, and major works

Medieval and some traditional music from the Near East, in the region of Armenia, gives a sense of visiting a long-forgotten place. A melancholy undertone in this music adds a sense of mystery. Leading exponents of this music include Jordi Savall with his Hesperion ensembles, Anouar Braham and Jivan Gasparyan.

• Savall, “Armenian Spirit”
• Savall, Jerusalén: La Cuidad de los Paces (The City of the Fish)
• Savall, Estembul: El libro de la cienca de la música
• Brahem, “Liqua”
• Gasparyan, Armenian Suite
• Gasparyan, “Apricots from Eden”
• Gasparyan, “Heavenly Duduk”
• Gasparyan and Ergan Okur, “Fuad”
• Hossein Alizedeh and Gasparyan, “Endless Vision”

Compositions:

• Furtwängler, Symphony No. 2 in E Minor (1947), offers a rougher-edged view of spiritual retreat. He composed this, his most famous symphony, as a response to World War II and its many accompanying atrocities.
• Narvaéz, “Los seys libros del Delphin de musica” (music for vihuela, 16^th century)

Albums:

• George Winston, “Summer” and “Autumn” albums
• Brian Eno, “Thursday Afternoon” album

Poetry

A little while, a little while,
  The weary task is put away,
  And I can sing and I can smile,
  Alike, while I have holiday.

Where wilt thou go, my harassed heart—
  What thought, what scene invites thee now
  What spot, or near or far apart,
  Has rest for thee, my weary brow?

There is a spot, ’mid barren hills,
  Where winter howls, and driving rain;
  But, if the dreary tempest chills,
  There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
  Moonless above bends twilight’s dome;
  But what on earth is half so dear—
  So longed for—as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
  The dank moss dripping from the wall,
  The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o’ergrown,
  I love them—how I love them all!

Still, as I mused, the naked room,
  The alien firelight died away;
  And from the midst of cheerless gloom,
  I passed to bright, unclouded day.

A little and a lone green lane
  That opened on a common wide;
  A distant, dreamy, dim blue chain
  Of mountains circling every side.

A heaven so clear, an earth so calm,
  So sweet, so soft, so hushed an air;
  And, deepening still the dream-like charm,
  Wild moor-sheep feeding everywhere.

That was the scene, I knew it well;
  I knew the turfy pathway’s sweep,
  That, winding o’er each billowy swell,
  Marked out the tracks of wandering sheep.

Could I have lingered but an hour,
  It well had paid a week of toil;
  But Truth has banished Fancy’s power:
  Restraint and heavy task recoil.

Even as I stood with raptured eye,
  Absorbed in bliss so deep and dear,
  My hour of rest had fleeted by,
  And back came labour, bondage, care.

[Emily Brontë, “A little while, a little while”]