A Christmas Carol illustrated by Arthur Rackham was first published in 1915.
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Charles Dickens: A Christmas Carol illustrated by Arthur Rackham
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Jean de Bosschère: Beast and Men, Part 2.
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The Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe with Illustrations by Edmund Dulac
We show the illustrations of two books. First, The Bells and other Poems by Edgar Allan Poe with Illustrations by Edmund Dulac, and second, The Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe with Illustrations by Edmund Dulac.
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The Bells contains vignettes for the poems and 6 colour plates. Since the same colour plates are found in The Poetical Works we only show the vignettes of The Bells.
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The Bells1849
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To Helene![]()
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The Bells contains vignettes for the poems and 6 colour plates. Since the same colour plates are found in The Poetical Works we only show the vignettes of The Bells.
The Bells1849
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
Silence
There is a twofold Silence—sea and shore—
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces,
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his name's "No More."
He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
No power hath he of evil in himself;
But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
No foot of man), commend thyself to God!
The Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more."
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping—rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more."
To One in Paradise
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Lenore
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
To Helene
I saw thee once—once only—years ago:
I must not say how many—but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
I must not say how many—but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With quietude, and sultriness and slumber,
Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—
Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
The Haunted Palace
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate !)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
The City in the Sea
No rays from the holy Heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently—
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free—
Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls—
Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls—
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers—
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
The Sleeper
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
Ulalume
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of a vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume—
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of a vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume—
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
Eldorado
And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?"
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?"
The Conqueror Worm
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
And the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
To the River
But when within thy wave she looks—
Which glistens then, and trembles—
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies—
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
Which glistens then, and trembles—
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
Her worshipper resembles;
For in his heart, as in thy stream,
Her image deeply lies—
His heart which trembles at the beam
Of her soul-searching eyes.
Al Aaraf (1)
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night...
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night...
Al Aaraf (2)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo—
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her—but ever then
It trembled to the orb of Earth again.
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her—but ever then
It trembled to the orb of Earth again.
Bridal Ballad
The ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command.
And I am happy now.
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satins and jewels grand
Are all at my command.
And I am happy now.
The Valley of Unrest
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless—
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
The sad valley's restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless—
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
To -
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall—
Then desolately fall,
O God! on my funereal mind
Like starlight on a pall—
Israfel
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy Stars (so legends tell),
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.
Fairyland
Dim vales—and shadowy floods—
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
And cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we can't discover
For the tears that drip all over
Huge moons there wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of the night—
Forever changing places—
And they put out the star-light
With the breath from their pale faces.
Dreamland
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I loved—I loved alone—
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I loved—I loved alone—
Tamerlane
We grew in age—and love—together—
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather—
And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven—but in her eyes.
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather—
And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven—but in her eyes.
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Walter Schmögner: Illustrationen zum "Der Bär auf dem Försterball"
Der Bär auf dem Försterball (The Bear at the Huntsmen's Ball) was published 1972 by Verlag Gertraud Middelhauve, Munich-Köln. The text was written by Peter Hacks. A new edition of the book appeared by Eulenspiegel Publishing House in 2004.
Walter Schmögner was born in Vienna/Austria on June 11, 1943. He grew up in Toledo/Spain. He studied graphic arts in Vienna. His works include paintings and drawings, stage design and sculpture as well as writing and illustrating books.
Extensive stays abroad in Frankfurt/M., Paris, New York, Hamburg, Zurich, Munich and London.
Numerous study trips all over Italy, Spain and North Africa. He now lives and works in Vienna and Southern Burgenland.
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Walter Schmögner was born in Vienna/Austria on June 11, 1943. He grew up in Toledo/Spain. He studied graphic arts in Vienna. His works include paintings and drawings, stage design and sculpture as well as writing and illustrating books.
Extensive stays abroad in Frankfurt/M., Paris, New York, Hamburg, Zurich, Munich and London.
Numerous study trips all over Italy, Spain and North Africa. He now lives and works in Vienna and Southern Burgenland.
Mrs. Bear appeared and was very furious...
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Illustrations for Lohengrin by Willy Pogàny, Part 1
Several weeks ago we showed Pogany's illustrations for Arabian Nights. At the beginning of the New Year 2015 we would like to present one of Pogany's masterpiece of book illustrations: The Tale of Lohengrin, Knight of Swan after the Drama of Richard Wagner.
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Tomi Ungerer: Illustrations for Johanna Spyri's Heidi
Tomi Ungerer was born in Strasbourg in Alsace in 1931 as son of Alice (nee Essler) and artist, historian, engineer and astronomical clock manufacturer Theodore. His work has been widely acclaimed with numerous honours and awards, including:
- Legion d'Honneur France (1990)
- Order of the Deutsches Bundesverdienstdreuz Germany (1993)
- National Prize for Graphic Arts France (1995)
- Hans Christian Andersen Prize for children's literature (1998)
- European Prize for Culture (1999)
- Officer of the Legion d'Honneur France (2000)
- Named Goodwill Ambassador for Childhood and Education of Council of Europe (2003)
- Erich Käistner Literary Prize (2004)
- Awarded an honorary Doctorate in Philosophy from the University of Karlsruhe (2004)
Tomi Ungerer wurde 1931 in Strassburg als Sohn einer Uhrmacher-Familie geboren. Sein Werk erhielt zahlreiche Auszeichnungen und Ehrungen, einschliesslich:
- Ehrenlegion Frankreich (1990)
- Auftrag des Deutschen Bundesverdienstdreuz Deutschland (1993)
- Staatspreis für Graphic Arts Frankreich (1995)
- Hans Christian Andersen-Preis für Kinder- und Jugendliteratur (1998)
- Europäische Kulturpreis (1999)
- Offizier der Ehrenlegion Frankreich (2000)
- Benannt Goodwill-Botschafter für Kindheit und Erziehung des Europarates (2003)
- Erich Käistner Literaturpreis (2004)
- Ehrendoktorwürde in Philosophie an der Universität Karlsruhe (2004)
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Damit stand er auf, füllte das Schüsselchen mit Milch, stellte es auf den Stuhl und rückte den ganz nahe an den Dreifuss, so dass das Heidi nun einen Tisch vor sich hatte.
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- wie heissen sie, Grossvater, wie heissen sie? rief das Kind...
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Das Tal lag weit unten im vollen Morgenglanze...
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Dann nahm er das Schüsselchen und melkte schöne, frische Milch hinein...
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Auch jetzt sprang das Kind wieder hin, den die junge, jammernde Stimme hatte eben wieder flehentlich gerufen.
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Da schoss der Schlitten davon die Alm hinab mit einer solchen Schnelligkeit, dass Heidi meinte, es fliege in der Luft wie ein Vogel...
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"Lass mich nur sitzen, du gutes Kind; es bleibt doch dunkel bei mir, auch im Schnee und in der Helle, sie dringt nicht mehr in meine Augen."
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Er klopfte und hämmerte um das ganze Häuschen herum...
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"Ich tu's nicht, Herr Pfarrer", sagte der Alte unentwegt.
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...es war die Base Dete. Sie hatte einen schönen Hut auf dem Kopf mit einer Feder darauf und ein Kleid, das alles mitfegte, was am Boden lag...
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"Du hast den Grossvater böse gemacht ", sagte Heidi....
...denn nun kamen sie gleich zu den ersten Häusern vom Dörfli....
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Im Hause des Herrn Sesemann in Frankfurt lag das kranke Töchterlein, Klara, in dem bequemen Rollstuhl...
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"Wie? Was? Wie hast du denn lesen gelernt?" fragte die Dame weiter.
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"Bist du gern nach Frankfurt gekommen?" fragte Klara weiter. "Nein, aber morgen geh' ich dann wieder heim und bringe der Grossmutter weisse Brötchen!" erklärte Heidi.
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Augenblicklich ergriff Heidi sein Brötchen und steckte es in die Tasche.
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Und sagte kurz: "Frühstück bereit!"
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Da lag auf dem Boden alles übereinander, die sämtlichen Studienhilfsmittel, Bücher, Hefte, Tintenfass und obendarauf der Tischteppich, unter dem ein schwarzes Tintenbächlein hervorfloss, die ganze Stube entlang. Heidi war verschwunden.
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...und konnte endlich den ersehnten Blick durch das Fenster tun.
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"Ja, gewiss, du kannst auch noch mehr haben, du kannst sie allle zusammen haben, wenn du Platz hast", sagte der Mann, dem es gerade recht war, seine kleinen Katzen los zu werden...
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"Das will ich schon besorgen, Fräulein Klara", entgegnete Sebastian bereitwillig: "ich mache ein schönes Bettchen in einem Korb...
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"Aufhören! Sofort aufhören! rief Fräulein Rottenmeier ins Zimmer hinein.
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"Das weiss ich wohl!" fuhr die Dame eifrig fort. "Nichts fehlt dir, gar nichts, du bist ein ganz unglaublich undankbares Kind, und vor lauter Wohlsein weisst du nicht, was du noch alles anstellen willst!"
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"Aber worin liegt denn das Schreckliche? So gar erschrecklich sieht mir das Kind nicht aus", bemerkte ruhig Herr Sesemann.
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"Weil du doch ein Glas hast, so gib mir auch einmal zu trinken; wem bringst du ein Glas Wasser ?"
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Sie hatte so schöne weisse Haare und um den Kopf ging eine schöne Spitzenkrause...
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Die Grossmutter schaute das Bild an. Es war eine schöne, grüne Weide, wo allerlei Tierlein herumweideten...
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Der Tag der Abreise war gekommen, es war für Klara und Heidi ein trauriger Tag...
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So ging eine lange Zeit dahin. Heidi wusste gar nie, ob es Sommer oder Winter sei, denn die Mauern und Fenster, die es aus allen Fenstern des Hauses Seesemann erblickte, sahen immer gleich aus...
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Endlich fassten sich der Johann und der Sebastian ein Herz und machten sich auf die dringenden Zureden der Dame Rottenmeier bereit, die Nacht unten in dem Zimmer, das an den grossen Saal stiess, zuzubringen und zu erwarten, was geschehe.
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"Ich glaube wahrhaftig, Sesemann, es ist deine kleine Wasserträgerin", sagte der Doktor.
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"Hm, und wo hast du mit deinem Grossvater gelebt?""Immer auf der Alm."
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"Bald nachher sass Heidi in der Eisenbahn und hielt unbeweglich seinen Korb auf dem Schosse fest...
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Die Abendsonne leuchtete ringsum auf die grüne Alm...
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"Jetzt kommt etwas von der Sonne, das will ich dir lesen Grossmutter",....
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Unten im Dörfli waren schon alle Leute in der Kirche und fingen eben zu singen an, als der Grossvater mit Heidi eintrat....
- Legion d'Honneur France (1990)
- Order of the Deutsches Bundesverdienstdreuz Germany (1993)
- National Prize for Graphic Arts France (1995)
- Hans Christian Andersen Prize for children's literature (1998)
- European Prize for Culture (1999)
- Officer of the Legion d'Honneur France (2000)
- Named Goodwill Ambassador for Childhood and Education of Council of Europe (2003)
- Erich Käistner Literary Prize (2004)
- Awarded an honorary Doctorate in Philosophy from the University of Karlsruhe (2004)
Tomi Ungerer wurde 1931 in Strassburg als Sohn einer Uhrmacher-Familie geboren. Sein Werk erhielt zahlreiche Auszeichnungen und Ehrungen, einschliesslich:
- Ehrenlegion Frankreich (1990)
- Auftrag des Deutschen Bundesverdienstdreuz Deutschland (1993)
- Staatspreis für Graphic Arts Frankreich (1995)
- Hans Christian Andersen-Preis für Kinder- und Jugendliteratur (1998)
- Europäische Kulturpreis (1999)
- Offizier der Ehrenlegion Frankreich (2000)
- Benannt Goodwill-Botschafter für Kindheit und Erziehung des Europarates (2003)
- Erich Käistner Literaturpreis (2004)
- Ehrendoktorwürde in Philosophie an der Universität Karlsruhe (2004)
I have collected his illustrated books, his childrenbooks, his cartoon books for 35 years. I would like to present his illustrations for Johanna Spyri's famous book Heidis Lehr- und Wanderjahre. The first edition appeared without naming the writer's name in 1880. The edition with Ungerer's pictures was published by Diogenes Verlag Zürich in 1978.
All colour pictures and a selection of the drawings in black and white are shown.
Frontispiz
"Bist du müde, Heidi?" fragte die Begleiterin. "Nein, es ist mir heiss", entgegnete das Kind.
Hier wohnte der Geissenpeter, der elfjährige Bube, der jeden Morgen unten im Dörfli die Geissen holte, um sie hoch auf die Alm hinauf zu treiben....
Auf einmal setzte sich das Kind auf den Boden nieder, zog mit grosser Schnelligkeit Schuhe und Strümpfe aus....
"So", sagte der Alte und warf einen blitzenden Blick auf die Dete. "Und wenn nun das Kind anfängt dir nachzuflennen und zu winseln, wie kleine Unvernünftige tun, was muss ich dann mit ihm anfangen?"
"Hier will ich schlafen", rief Heidi hinunter...
"So, das ist recht, dass du selbst etwas ausdenkst", sagte der Grossvater und legte den Braten auf das Brot als Unterlage...
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Im Hause des Herrn Sesemann in Frankfurt lag das kranke Töchterlein, Klara, in dem bequemen Rollstuhl...
...und konnte endlich den ersehnten Blick durch das Fenster tun.
Heidi setzte sich in seinem einsamen Zimmer in einen Winkel und hielt sich mit beiden Händen die Augen zu....sein brennendes Heimweh niederkämpfend,...
Unten im Dörfli waren schon alle Leute in der Kirche und fingen eben zu singen an, als der Grossvater mit Heidi eintrat....
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Illustrations for Lohengrin by Willy Pogàny, Part 2
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Joseph A. Altsheler: The Lost Hunters illustrated by Zdenek Burian
The Lost Hunters: A Story of Wild Man and Great Beasts by Joseph A. Altsheler (1862-1919) was printed by D. Appleton & Company in 1918. The book was illustrated by famed artist Charles L. Wrenn.
The Czech edition with the illustrations by Zdenek Burian appeared in 1935 - 1936. As far as I know there is no German edition of this story.
The Lost Hunters is the second volume of the Great West Series of which The Great Sioux Trail was the first. In this story young Will Clarke, who has long been a captive among the Sioux, and who has risen to high favor, has become a Sioux himself, not only in manners and customs, but in thought. The world is clothed for him in a new atmosphere and he believes with the Indians that good and evil spirits fill air, earth and water - in truth all things. Hence, his eye and mind in this story are the eye and mind of a Sioux.
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Vignette of the title-page
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"When you look up," said Will Clark, "you see no signs of spring, but when you look down the broken ice in the river tells you ti's at hand.""It is so, Waditaka", said old Inmutaka.
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Several layers of bark made a floor impervious to damp, and heavy buffalo robes, soft and warm, were spread over the bark like a carpet. will's rifle, never used by him now, rested on hooks....in the centre, where they had made a hearth of stone, a low fire burned and threw out a greatful heat....The lad presently closed his eyes and listened to the soft, musical tones of Inmutanka...
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"you know what it is, Waditaka?" he said.
"The great wolves following on our flank."
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A huge mountain wolf was sitting upon his bow and quiver, and, with his jaws open and slavering, was looking straight at him, his cruel red eyes expressing the certainty of triumph.
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A mighty yellow shape launched itself from the over-hangig bough of a tree, but it was met in mid air by four arrows, which did not slay, but which broke its flight. the huge panther dropped almost at Will's feet, and the snap of its terrible fangs barely missed him.
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The valiant Dakotas, Roka and Pehansan at their head, rushed forward and poured a stream of arrows into the bear, which was a terrible object, standing far higher than a man, shaft after shaft protruding from his body, stripped now with red by his flowing blood...
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Tarinka bent beneath a great oak to pick up a fallen bough, and huge, tawny body shooting down struck him squarely upon the back....
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The bull, a monster of the mountain or woods species, sprang to his feet, and with a puffing roar, charged....They leaped aside, but he whirled with uncommon agility for so huge a brute, and rushed at them again...
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He managed to raise his head somewhat higher out of water and saw a current, with himself in the very centre of it, running like a mad torrent to an awful place where, in a cloud of oam, it dropped off into nothing.
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...the great eagle, circling and swooping, came nearer and nearer. The rush of air from its wings fanned his face, and the beak and claws, sharp and hard as steel, cut alarmingly near. Will paused and clung tightly to the cliff. One foot rested in a small crevice, and the other was supported by a slight projection....he pulled the trigger....
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Having dined well and being warm through and through, he fell asleep, wrapped in his robe, between the fires, and so sound were his slumbers that he never stirred once durung the night. The great bear that he had wounded came back through the woods, licking his hurts, and eager for revenge, and another came with him....
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It happened also that Waditaka was the first to catch a glint of brown in the bushes. His great elk-horn bow bent to the uttermost and his arrow shot forth, a flash of light. The death cry coming back showed that it had not been launched in vain....
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And despite the darkness and confusion the Dakota never shot better. Figure after figure fell before their swift arrows, but they were not escaping now without harm themselves.
The Czech edition with the illustrations by Zdenek Burian appeared in 1935 - 1936. As far as I know there is no German edition of this story.
The Lost Hunters is the second volume of the Great West Series of which The Great Sioux Trail was the first. In this story young Will Clarke, who has long been a captive among the Sioux, and who has risen to high favor, has become a Sioux himself, not only in manners and customs, but in thought. The world is clothed for him in a new atmosphere and he believes with the Indians that good and evil spirits fill air, earth and water - in truth all things. Hence, his eye and mind in this story are the eye and mind of a Sioux.
Dustcover of Harrap's edition (1934)
The pictures by Charles L. Wrenn
Hoton and the bear (Frontispiece)
He fell among the bushes, but had the courage and the tenacity to cling to his bow.
He sent three bullets crashing into his brain.
He pulled the trigger and sent his bullet directly at the target he had chosen.
Illustrations by Zdenek Burian
"The great wolves following on our flank."
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The Fairy Tales of Charles Perrault illustrated by Harry Clarke
Harry Clarke (17 March 1889 – 6 January 1931) was an Irish stained-glass artist and bookillustrator. Born in Dublin, he was a leading figure in the Irish Arts and Crafts Movement.
In London he sought employment as a book illustrator. Picked up by London publisher Harrap,he started with two commissions which were never completed: Samuel Taylor Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (his work on which was destroyed during the 1916 Easter Rising) and an illustrated edition of Alexander Pope's The Rape of the Lock.
Charles Perrault's Fairy Tales of Perrault, and Goethe's Faust, containing 8 colour plates and more than 70 monotone and duotone images were published in 1925 (New York: Hartsdale House).
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In London he sought employment as a book illustrator. Picked up by London publisher Harrap,he started with two commissions which were never completed: Samuel Taylor Coleridge's The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (his work on which was destroyed during the 1916 Easter Rising) and an illustrated edition of Alexander Pope's The Rape of the Lock.
Charles Perrault's Fairy Tales of Perrault, and Goethe's Faust, containing 8 colour plates and more than 70 monotone and duotone images were published in 1925 (New York: Hartsdale House).
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Rip Van Winkle by Washington Irving illustrated by N.C. Wyeth
Washington Irving’s story, Rip Van Winkle, was first published in 1819. It takes place in a town at the foot of the Catskill Mountains in New York shortly before the Revolutionary War. The star of the story is a Dutchman, Rip Van Winkle, who is beloved by the children of the village but nagged by his wife for his lazy habits. One winter’s day, Rip wanders up into the hills to escape from his domestic misery and encounters a group of bearded men who are playing nine-pins – an early European precursor to American ten-pin bowling. After drinking some of their liquid libation he falls asleep.He awakens to discover that his beard has grown down to his waist. When he returns to the village he learns that his wife has passed away and all of his friends are gone. It turns out that he was sleeping for more than twenty years!
The edition illustrated by N.C. Wyeth was published by the David McKay Company in 1921.
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The edition illustrated by N.C. Wyeth was published by the David McKay Company in 1921.
Vorsatzblätter
Frontispiece
The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diederich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the descendents from its primitive settlers.
Die nachfolgende Erzählung fand sich unter den Papieren des verstorbenen Diederich Knickerbocker, eines alten Herrn in New York, welcher sich für die holländische Geschichte der Provinz und die Sitten der Nachkommen ihrer ersten Ansiedler lebhaft interessiert hat.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle.
In diesem Dorfe, und zwar in einem der erwähnten Häuser, welches - um streng der Wahrheit gemäss zu schildern - von der Zeit und vom Wetter ausserordentlich mitgenommen war, lebte vor vielen Jahren, als das Land noch eine Provinz Grossbritanniens war, eine schlichte gutmütige Haut namens Rip Van Winkle.
Ein zänkisches Weib kann daher in mancher Hinsicht schon für einen leidlichen Segen gelten, und wenn dem so ist, dann war Rip Van Winkle dreifach gesegnet.
The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor...for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur...
Der Hauptfehler in Rips ganzem Wesen war eine unüberwindliche Abneigung gegen alle Arten einträglicher Arbeit. Diese Abneigung konnte ihren Grund nicht in einem Mangel an Fleiss oder Ausdauer haben, denn er vermochte mit einer Angelrute, so lang und schwer wie eine Tatarenlanze, auf einem feuchten Felsen zu sitzen und den ganzen Tag ohne Murren zu angeln...
He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale...
Stundenlang konnte er eine Vogelflinte auf der Schulter tragen und sich bergauf, bergab duch Wald und Sumpf arbeiten...
He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing...
Er zog die Schultern in die Höhe, schüttelte den Kopf, schlug die Augen empor und sagte kein Wort.
...he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation.
...und er schlich mit der Miene eines Verbrechers umher, während er manchen Seitenblick auf Frau Van Winkle warf, um bei der geringsten Bewegung eines Besenstiels oder Löffels mit stürmischer Hast zur Türe zu fliehen.
The opinions of the junto were complety controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn...it is true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly.
Vollständig kontrolliert wurden die Meinungen dieser Junta duch Nicholas Edder, einen Patriarchen des Dorfes und Wirt des Hauses,...Allerdings hörte man ihn selten sprechen, unablässig jedoch rauchte er seine Pfeife.
In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains...he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland.
Auf einer langen Streiferei solcher Art, an einem schönen Herbsttage, war Rip absichtlos zu einem der höchsten Teile der Catskillberge hinaufgeklettert...konnte er das reiche Waldland der Gegend unten meilenweit übersehen.
...and mutually relieving one another, they climbed up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent.
Gegenseitig einander unterstüzend, kletterten sie eine enge Kluft empor, welche das trockene Bett eines Bergstromes zu sein schien.
He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands.
Er wagte sogar, wenn kein Auge auf ihn gerichtet war, das Getränk zu kosten, dessen Geschmack ihn an den trefflichsten Wacholderbranntwein gemahnte.
Beim Erwachen fand er sich auf dem grünen Hügel, von wo aus er den alten Mann in der Talschlucht zuerst erblickt hatte.
Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree...
Hier sah sich denn der arme Rip genötigt, haltzumachen. Er rief und pfiff aufs neue nach seinem Hunde; nur das Krächzen einer Schar müssiger Krähen antwortete ihm, die hoch oben um einen Baum schwärmten...
A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting at him....
Eine Schar fremder Kinder rannte hinter ihm drein, zischte ihn aus....
Eine Schar fremder Kinder rannte hinter ihm drein, zischte ihn aus....
It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house....he found the house gone to decay - the roof fallen in, the windows shattered...
Mit einiger Schwierigkeit fand er den Weg zu seinem eigenen Haus...Er fand das Haus verfallen - das Dach eingesunken, die Fenster zerbrochen...
In place of these, a lean bilious-looking fellow,,,was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens - elections - members of congress....
An der Stelle dieser Männer hielt ein hagerer Mensch von galligem Aussehen heftige Reden über Bürgerrechte, Wahlen, Kongressmitglieder...
"What is your name, my good woman?" asked he, "Judith Gardener.""And your father's name?""Ah poor man Rip, Van Winkle was his name,...
"Wie heisst Ihr, gute Frau?" fragte er. "Judith Gardener.""Und Eures Vaters Name?""Ach, der arme Mann, sein Name war Rip Van Winkle....
...she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at aNew-England Peddler.
Ach, sie ist auch gestorben; es ist noch nicht lange her; es sprang ihr ein Blutgefäss, als sie über einen neuenglischen Hausierkrämer in Zorn geriet.
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Illustrations for Lohengrin by Willy Pogàny, Part 3
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English Fairy Tales illustrated by Arthur Rackham
ENGLISH FAIRY-TALES retold by Flora Annie Steel and illustrated by Arthur Rackham was first published by Macmillan & Co. 1918.
Mr. and Mrs. Vinegar at home (Frontispiece)
When she came to St. George she started and laid her hand on
her heart.THE STORY OF THE THREE BEARS
"Somebody has been at my porridge, and has eaten it all up!"
TOM-TIT-TOT
"What is that you are singing, my good woman?"
A small, little, black Thing with a long tail
Away That flew into the dark, and she never saw it no moreTHE GOLDEN SNUFF-BOX
They brought the Castle of the golden pillarsTATTERCOATS
Tattercoats dancing while the gooseherd pipesLAZY JACK 
Jack found it hard to hoist the donkey on his shouldersJACK THE GIANT-KILLER
The giant Cormoran was the terror of all the country-side
So, taking the keys of the castle, he unlocked all the doors and set
free three beauteous ladies who, tied by the hair of their heads, he
found almost starved to death. 
"Odds splutter hur nails!" cried the giant, not to be outdone.
"Hur can do that hurself!"
"Ah! Cousin Jack! Kind cousin Jack! This is heavy news
indeed"
Now he had not gone far when he came upon one,
seated on a huge block of timber near the entrance to a dark cave.
...a messenger arrived to say that one Thunderdell, a huge
giant with two heads, having heard of the death of his kinsman, was on
his way from the northern dales to be revenged, and was already within a
mile or two of the castle...
... the country folk with their flocks and herds
flying before him like chaff before the wind.
The giant Galligantua and the wicked old magician
transform the duke's daughter into a white hind.
He heard the bogles striving under the bed.THE TWO SISTERS
"Tree of mine! O Tree of mine! Have you seen my naughty
little maid?"
JACK AND THE BEANSTALK
As he spoke he drew out of his pocket five beans.
"Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman."
Jack seized the axe and gave a great chop at the
beanstalk.CATSKIN
She went along, and went along, and went along. THE THREE LITTLE PIGS 
So he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house in.
So he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house in.
Well! he huffed and he puffed ... but he could not
blow the house down.MR. AND MRS. VINEGAR 
At last he flew into a violent rage and flung his stick
at the bird.
And that is the story of Mr. and Mrs. Vinegar.
THE TRUE HISTORY OF SIR THOMAS THUMB
A spider one day attacked him.HENNY-PENNY
"I will go first and you come after, Henny-penny,
Cocky-locky Ducky-daddles, Goosey-poosey, and Turkey-lurkey"
So she escaped. THE THREE HEADS OF THE WELL
They thanked her and said good-bye, and she went on her journey.
The thorns closed in around her so that she was all scratched
and torn.DICK WHITTINGTON AND HIS CAT
Dick finds that the streets of London are not paved with
gold.
Many's the beating he had from the broomstick or the ladle 
Dick Whittington hears Bow Bells.
When Puss saw the rats and mice she didn't wait to be told.
THE BOGEY-BEAST
"Well!" she chuckled, "I am in luck!"
They both met together upon Nottingham bridge
"A vengeance on her!" said they. "We did not make our
hedge high enough"
He took out the cheeses and rolled them down the hill
And they left the eel to drown
The hare ran on along the country way.
A courtier came riding by, and he did ask what they were
seeking.CAPORUSHES
She sat down and plaited herself an overall of rushes and a cap
to match.
THE ASS, THE TABLE, AND THE STICK 
The fisherman and his wife had no children, and they were just
longing for a baby.
A funny-looking old gentleman engaged her and took her
home.
White-faced simminy has got a spark of hot cockalorum on its
tail↧
The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings illustrated by N.C. Wyeth
The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings was published in March 1938. It was the number one best seller for twenty-three consecutive weeks in 1938. It sold over 250,000 copies in 1938. It has been translated into Spanish, Chinese, French, Japanese, German, Italian, Russian and twenty-two other languages. It won the Pulitzer Prize for the novel in 1939. The edition with the illustrations by N.C. Wyeth appeared in 1939.
Plot: Jody Baxter, a young boy, lives with his parents, Ora and Ezra "Penny" Baxter, in the animal-filled central Florida backwoods in the 1870s. His parents had six other children prior to Jody, but they died in infancy which makes it difficult for Ma Baxter to bond with Jody. They struggle to survive harsh weather, the attacks of an old bear named Slewfoot and their wild neighbors who are both helpful and a bit dangerous.
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Aus Wikipedia: Frühling des Lebens (Originaltitel: The Yearling) ist ein 1938 erschienener Roman der US-amerikanischen Autorin Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings (* 1896; † 1953). Der Roman wurde 1939 mit dem Pulitzer-Preis ausgezeichnet und erreichte eine hohe Auflage. Er erschien erstmals 1939 in deutscher Sprache im von Schroeder Verlag.
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"He come as quiet as a black cloud, into the wind. Made a circle to git his wind right. So quiet, the dogs never heered nor scented him. Even this un--even this un--" he leaned to stroke the feice at his feet--"was fooled."
The Forresters exchanged glances.
"We set out after breakfast, Jody and me and all three o' the dogs. We tracked that bear acrost the south scrub. We tracked him along the edge o' the saw-grass ponds. We tracked him thu Juniper Bay. We tracked him thu the swamp, the trail gittin' hotter and hotter. We come up with him--"
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Plot: Jody Baxter, a young boy, lives with his parents, Ora and Ezra "Penny" Baxter, in the animal-filled central Florida backwoods in the 1870s. His parents had six other children prior to Jody, but they died in infancy which makes it difficult for Ma Baxter to bond with Jody. They struggle to survive harsh weather, the attacks of an old bear named Slewfoot and their wild neighbors who are both helpful and a bit dangerous.
He cut two forked twigs and trimmed them into two Y's of the same size. Oliver had been very particular to have the cross-bar round and smooth, he remembered. A wild cherry grew half-way up the bank. He climbed it and cut a twig as even as a polished pencil. He selected a palm frond and cut two strips of the tough fiber, an inch wide and four inches long. He cut a slit lengthwise in the center of each of them, wide enough to insert the cherry twig. The strips of palm frond must be at angles, like the arms of a windmill. He adjusted them carefully. He separated the Y-shaped twigs by nearly the length of the cherry cross-bar and pushed them deep into the sand of the branch bed a few yards below the spring. The water was only a few inches deep but it ran strongly, with a firm current. The palm-frond mill-wheel must just brush the water's surface. He experimented with depth until he was satisfied, then laid the cherry bar between the twigs. It hung motionless. He twisted it a moment, anxiously, helping it to fit itself into its forked grooves. The bar began to rotate.
He jammed the gun-barrel in the bear's ribs. Even in her pain, Julia had taken a grip on the black throat above her.
The Forresters exchanged glances.
"We set out after breakfast, Jody and me and all three o' the dogs. We tracked that bear acrost the south scrub. We tracked him along the edge o' the saw-grass ponds. We tracked him thu Juniper Bay. We tracked him thu the swamp, the trail gittin' hotter and hotter. We come up with him--"
The cranes were dancing a cotillion as surely as it was danced at Volusia. Two stood apart, erect and white, making a strange music that was part cry and part singing. The rhythm was irregular, like the dance. The other birds were in a circle. In the heart of the circle, several moved counter-clock-wise. The musicians made their music. The dancers raised their wings and lifted their feet, first one and then the other.
It was true. The Forresters were killing Oliver. Oliver was fighting three of them at once, Lem and Mill-wheel and Buck. He looked like a buck deer Jody had once seen, wounded and bleeding, with the dogs tearing flesh from its throat and shoulders. Blood and sand covered his face.
It seemed to Jody that he was alone with his father. The vigil was in his hands. If he kept awake, and labored for breath with the tortured sleeper, breathing with him and for him, he could keep him alive. He drew a breath as deep as the ones his father was drawing. It made him dizzy. He was light-headed and his stomach was empty.
The fawn lifted its nose, scenting him. He reached out one hand and laid it on the soft neck. The touch made him delirious. He moved forward on all fours until he was close beside it.
He swung the box to his shoulder. Pa Forrester and Gabby were missing. Buck set out toward the south hammock. Ma Forrester followed him. Mill-wheel took hold of her arm. The others dropped in behind them. The procession filed slowly to the hammock.
He went out of the kitchen door with the milk gourd into a strange world. It was a lost and desolate world, like the beginning of time, or the end of it. The vegetation was beaten flat. A river ran down the road, so that a flat-bottomed boat could have gone down it clear to Silver Glen.
"That jest proves your ignorance, young feller. I do hate for you to grow up and not know nothin'. You'll jest have to make out this year with what leetle I kin learn you."
The Forresters stopped the next morning on their way. Jody ran out to meet them and Penny and Ma Baxter followed. Buck and Mill-wheel and Lem were crowded together on the wagon seat. The wagon body behind them was filled with a quarreling, wrestling, whining tangle of shiny black fur, shot through with flashes of small teeth and claws and pairs of bright beady black eyes.
Penny lifted his gun. He took steady aim and fired. With Rip hugged to his breast, old Slewfoot dropped. His killing days were done.
It seemed so easy now that it was over. They had followed him. Penny had shot him. There he lay--
One cold bright night at the end of January, Penny and Ma Baxter had gone to bed while Jody lingered with Flag by the fire.
He was trembling from his exertion and from his fear. He told himself that he was not lost, for the river ran north out of Lake George and came at the end to Jacksonville, and he had only to follow it. But it was so wide, and the shore line was so confusing - He rested a long time, then began to paddle slowly north, close to the thick-cypressed land, following the endless curves and bays and indentations.
Endpapers (Vorsatzblätter)
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The Year's at the Spring illustrated by Harry Clarke
In 1919 Harry Clarke was commissioned to illustrate a gift anthology of poetry collected by the London poet Lettice D‘Oyly Walters. The antology contains 24 full-page plates and 22 decorative drawings. Clarke‘s biographer Nicola Gordon Bowe points out, that Clarke was badly stuck on the job. She surmises that he may not have been inspired by the poetry in the book. However, it is important to remember that book illustration does not necessarily have to be a representation of the text.The poetry collected in The Year’s at the Spring fails to cohere, but Clarke‘s illustrations share acommon characteristic: they immerse the readers in what J. R. R. Tolkien called a secondary world, that of "fairie".
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Frontispiece
↧
The Romance of Tristram and Iseult illustrated by Maurice Lalau
Maurice Lalau (1881 - 1961) was a French illustrator and painter. He had also used the pseudonym of Maurice Manoi.
The Romance of Tristram and Iseult was published by William Heinemann out of London, and by J. B. Lippincott out of Philadelphia, in 1910.
Frontispiece: Tristram and Iseult
The castle rose by the sea-coast, fair and strong, well fortified against all assaults and all engines of war
She alone, cunning in the use of philtres, could save Tristram
Tristram spurred his horse against him with such a fury...
At this moment Bragwaine entered, and saw how they gazed at each other in silence, ravished and amazed
Eighteen days from that time, having convoked all his barons, he took Iseult the Fair to wife
Above in the branches the King was moved to pity, and he smiled gently
Unless the king would send his nephew out of the country, they would retire into their castles and make war upon him
Presently the news spread throughout the city in the darkness
The lovers lived crouching in the hollow of a rock...
All night, passing through the beloved woods for the last time, they journeyed in silence
The palace gates were thrown open to all comers; rich and poor might sit down and eat
She strechted out her arms on either side, the palms open
Under the trees he pressed her to his heart without a word
She took the magic bell, rang it eor the last time, then threw it into the sea
Then the two on foot, with shattered shields and hauberks unbuckled, defied and assailed each other
The Queen sings sweetly
King Mark and Iseult the Fair were seated at chess
Tristram disguised himself as a beggar
She gave up the ghost and died beside him for grief
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Illustrations for Lohengrin by Willy Pogàny, last Part
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Robin Hood illustrated by N.C. Wyeth
The first edition of Robin Hood by Paul Creswick with illustrations by N.C. Wyeth was published in 1917.
Regarding that Wyeth's career includes more than one hundred book illustrations we will show more of his work in the following months.
Bookcover
pictorial Endpaper (Vorsatzblatt)
pictorial Endpaper (Vorsatzblatt)
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Amor und Psyche mit Buchschmuck von Walter Tiemann
Walter Tiemann (1876 - 1951) war ein deutscher Buchkünstler, Typograf, Grafiker und Illustrator. 1894 begann er sein Studium an der Königlichen Kunstakademie und Kunstgewerbeschule in Leipzig. Nach zwei Jahren wechselte er nach Dresden; später folgte ein Studienaufenthalt in Paris.
1897 gewann er einen Plakatwettbewerb für die sächsisch-thüringische Ausstellung; 1903 berief man ihn an die Königliche Akademie für Graphische Künste und Buchgewerbe in Leipzig als Lehrer der Meisterklasse für das Gesamtgebiet des Buchgewerbes, der Illustration, der freien und der angewandten Grafik (Wikipedia). Tiemann arbeitete vorrangig für den Insel- und den Fischer Verlag.
Der vorliegende Band Amor und Psycheübertragen von Eduard Norden, erschienen 1902, zeigt Tiemanns floral geprägten Jugenstil.
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1897 gewann er einen Plakatwettbewerb für die sächsisch-thüringische Ausstellung; 1903 berief man ihn an die Königliche Akademie für Graphische Künste und Buchgewerbe in Leipzig als Lehrer der Meisterklasse für das Gesamtgebiet des Buchgewerbes, der Illustration, der freien und der angewandten Grafik (Wikipedia). Tiemann arbeitete vorrangig für den Insel- und den Fischer Verlag.
Der vorliegende Band Amor und Psycheübertragen von Eduard Norden, erschienen 1902, zeigt Tiemanns floral geprägten Jugenstil.
Walter Tiemann was born 29 January 1876 in Delitzsch, Saxony. Studied painting for two years at the Dresden Kunstakademie but became interested in poster design. By 1902 he was ‘decorating’ books; by 1903 he was teaching. He visited England (1904), Paris (1905). With his childhood friend Carl Ernst Poeschel founded the first private press in Germany, the Janus-Presse (1907-1926). Tiemann designed numerous title-pages and book bindings for the Janus-Presse and, later, for other publishers including Insel-Verlag and Julius Zeitler. 1908-10: designed the Munich art journal Hyperion. From 1909: taught at the Leipzig State Academy for the Book Trade and Graphic Arts (Akademie für graphische Künste und Buchgewerbe) (1920-41, 1945-6: director).
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Thomas Haller Buchanan - Kickstarter artbook project
Unterstützt bitte dieses tolle Buchprojekt
von Thomas Haller Buchanan.
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Sophie Wörishöffer: Unter Korsaren mit Tonbildern von Johannes Gehrts
Obschon Sophie Wörishöffer (1838 - 1890) nie den Umkreis ihres Wohnorts verlassen hatte, verfasste sie doch einer Serie von spannenden Abenteuergeschichten für die reiferen Knaben, wie es so schön in den Anzeigen des Verlags von Velhagen & Klasing zu lesen war. Zudem war sie die einzige Frau unter den deutschen Abenteuerautoren des 19. Jahrhunderts. Das dürfte auch einer der Gründe gewesen sein, warum ihr Vornamen Sophie stets nur mit S. in ihren Büchern aufgeführt wurde. Man traute anscheinend zu jener Zeit einer Frau nicht zu, lesenswerte Abenteuergeschichten zu verfassen.
Johannes Gehrts(1855 - 1921) wurde als Sohn des Malers J. H. Gehrts geboren. Die Familie wohnte in der „neuen Friedrichstraße Hof Nr. 17.Sein älterer Bruder war der Maler Carl Gehrts. Johannes Gehrts heiratete Laura Adeline Adelgunde Auguste Koettgen (1848–1924), eine Tochter des Malers Gustav Adolf Koettgen. Gehrts besuchte die Kunstakademie in Weimar von 1873 bis 1876. Johannes Gehrts lebte und lehrte ab 1884 in Düsseldorf. Er gehörte der Düsseldorfer Malerschule an. Er illustrierte Bücher zu germanischen Heldensagen, Marine- und Piratengeschichten, Reiseabenteuerromanen und Märchen. Die Gemälde und Illustrationen zu Heldensagen, Mythologie und Volksleben der Germanen trugen ihm den Spitznamen „Germanen-Gehrts“ ein (Wikipedia).
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Johannes Gehrts (1855 - 1921), brother of the painter Carl Gehrts(1853-1898), was a leading German illustrator whose work appeared in popular magazines such as Die Gartenlaube in the design of children's books and in works of his friend Felix Dahn. He depicted scenes from Germanic and Norse mythology, legends and sagas, pirate stories, travel adventures and fairy-tales.
Gehrts attended the Art Academy of Weimar from 1873 to 1876, and lived in Düsseldorf from 1884 onwards.
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Johannes Gehrts(1855 - 1921) wurde als Sohn des Malers J. H. Gehrts geboren. Die Familie wohnte in der „neuen Friedrichstraße Hof Nr. 17.Sein älterer Bruder war der Maler Carl Gehrts. Johannes Gehrts heiratete Laura Adeline Adelgunde Auguste Koettgen (1848–1924), eine Tochter des Malers Gustav Adolf Koettgen. Gehrts besuchte die Kunstakademie in Weimar von 1873 bis 1876. Johannes Gehrts lebte und lehrte ab 1884 in Düsseldorf. Er gehörte der Düsseldorfer Malerschule an. Er illustrierte Bücher zu germanischen Heldensagen, Marine- und Piratengeschichten, Reiseabenteuerromanen und Märchen. Die Gemälde und Illustrationen zu Heldensagen, Mythologie und Volksleben der Germanen trugen ihm den Spitznamen „Germanen-Gehrts“ ein (Wikipedia).
Sophie Wörishöffer(1838 - 1890) wrote a series of absorbing and fascinating adventure booksfor boys, although she never left the domicile where she lived. Additionally, she was the only female german writer in these days. The editor Velhagen & Klasing tried to conceal this fact, therefore you don't find her first name Sophie on all book covers (only S.). Even the editions of the year 1930 still show S.!
Gehrts attended the Art Academy of Weimar from 1873 to 1876, and lived in Düsseldorf from 1884 onwards.
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