17
Apr 15

Aan Wal !

Opening 19 april, vanaf 12 uur aan de Kanaaldijk 10 – 12 in Hengelo.
theoenlouise.artisartis.nl/tentoonstellingen

Flyer Aan Wal 22-03-15.indd


29
Mar 15

Tien

mooie covers, in willekeurige volgorde.


15
Mar 15

Puzzelen met T en L

*klik*
Puzzel

En ja, er zijn er nog meer !


10
Feb 15

Was ook weer-es een avond alleen thuis

theoenlouise.artisartis.nl


25
Jan 15

Nog meer

kijkjes achter de schermen, triviale weetjes, nooit eerder gepubliceerde plaatjes en meer nieuws waar u al lang op zat te wachten: Theo & Louise twitteren !


19
Jan 15

Vergeet u niet

mee te doen aan de verhalenwedstrijd ?
Inzenden kan tot 1 maart !

10928918_628290597298074_3464593740677030299_o


14
Jan 15

Boven water

Door al mijn gegoochel met subdomeinen en verwijzingen en wat al niet was dit arme ouwe toch al zo verwaarloosde blog helemaal zoek geraakt, of misschien niet zoek, maar in ieder geval onbereikbaar. Dacht ik. Uiteindelijk was het een kwestie van een piepkleine wijziging in de database. Fijn, nóg een plek om reclame te maken voor Theo & Louise, de website !

theo en louise, de website


04
Mar 14

Zonder titel

with winters demise
the old monk writes his friends
don’t expect too much of me

Bill Wyatt – The old monk who does as he pleases

the old monk


01
Jan 14

Well, here we are…een heel nieuw jaar !

‘and the best thing that you can do is take whatever comes to you, ’cause time flies’

Well, here we are


31
Oct 13

Hallow-e’en

Hallow-e'en

A thin moon faints in the sky o’erhead,
And dumb in the churchyard lie the dead.
Walk we not, Sweet, by garden ways,
Where the late rose hangs and the phlox delays,
But forth of the gate and down the road,
Past the church and the yews, to their dim abode.
For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.

Fear not that sound like wind in the trees:
It is only their call that comes on the breeze;
Fear not the shudder that seems to pass:
It is only the tread of their feet on the grass;
Fear not the drip of the bough as you stoop:
It is only the touch of their hands that grope —
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,
When the dead can yearn and the dead can smite.

And where should a man bring his sweet to woo
But here, where such hundreds were lovers too?
Where lie the dead lips that thirst to kiss,
The empty hands that their fellows miss,
Where the maid and her lover, from sere to green,
Sleep bed by bed, with the worm between?
For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,
When the dead can hear and the dead have sight.

And now that they rise and walk in the cold,
Let us warm their blood and give youth to the old.
Let them see us and hear us, and say: “Ah, thus
In the prime of the year it went with us!”
Till their lips drawn close, and so long unkist,
Forget they are mist that mingles with mist!
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,
When the dead can burn and the dead can smite.

Till they say, as they hear us — poor dead, poor dead! —
“Just an hour of this, and our age-long bed —
Just a thrill of the old remembered pains
To kindle a flame in our frozen veins,
Just a touch, and a sight, and a floating apart,
As the chill of dawn strikes each phantom heart —
For it’s turn of the year and All Souls’ night,
When the dead can hear, and the dead have sight.”

And where should the living feel alive
But here in this wan white humming hive,
As the moon wastes down, and the dawn turns cold,
And one by one they creep back to the fold?
And where should a man hold his mate and say:
“One more, one more, ere we go their way”?
For the year’s on the turn, and it’s All Souls’ night,
When the living can learn by the churchyard light.

And how should we break faith who have seen
Those dead lips plight with the mist between,
And how forget, who have seen how soon
They lie thus chambered and cold to the moon?
How scorn, how hate, how strive, we too,
Who must do so soon as those others do?
For it’s All Souls’ night, and break of the day,
And behold, with the light the dead are away

Edith Wharton, All Souls