Hm. Since it's the first one I thought about, let's go with that, Simon Schama's The Power of Art. This man is brilliant! He gives a section each to Caravaggio (my favorite painter), Bernini (favorite sculptor), Rembrandt, David, Turner (another fave!), van Gogh (love him, too), Picasso and Rothko. I haven't finished it, sadly, but it was brilliant. I mean, you can't beat a book that has this as its first paragraph: Great art has dreadful manners. The hushed reverence of the gallery can fool you into believing masterpieces are polite things, visions that soothe, charm and beguile, but actually they are thugs. Merciless and wily, the greatest paintings grab you in a headlock, rough up your composure and then proceed in short order to rearrange your sense of reality. BRILLIANT! If I write a book on art/art history I want it to be like his.
Day 15 → a fanfic.
Hm. Another hm. I don't read fan-fictions; usually they're really horrible, (no offense, but there ain't no Shakespeares on fanfiction.net) or they go to places I just don't need to be a part of. For example, I do not need to know about Harry Potter and Dumbledore's sexscapades when they got caught by Malfoy who joined in on the fun. No.
I'm currently writing something that you could consider a fan-fiction, only because I've taken something fictional (a TV show) and added in characters and such, but it's private. It's for my eyes only, where I can work on writing without caring about my audience. So, in the honor of St. Valentine's Day, we'll share some Pablo Neruda. This isn't my favorite love sonnet, but I still like it.
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.