
W. J. Turner was a Scottish poet, critic, and scholar, known for his contributions to the literary and musical landscape of the early 20th century. Born in 1884, he developed a keen interest in the interplay between literature and music, which became a central theme in his work. His notable work, 'Orpheus; Or, The Music of the Future,' reflects his fascination with the transformative power of music and its relationship to poetry. Turner’s writings often explored the emotional depth and philosophical implications of artistic expression, positioning him as a significant figure in the cultural discourse of his time. Turner's literary significance lies not only in his poetry but also in his role as a critic who engaged with contemporary movements in literature and music. His insights contributed to a broader understanding of the artistic currents of the early 20th century, particularly in relation to the modernist movement. Through his exploration of themes such as beauty, inspiration, and the creative process, Turner left a lasting impact on both literary and musical criticism, influencing future generations of writers and artists. His legacy endures in the way he bridged the gap between different forms of artistic expression, emphasizing the interconnectedness of music and literature.
“My business is to paint what I see, not what I know is there.””
“J.M.W. Turner's Poem dedicated to Ivan Aivazovsky (1842)Like a curtain slowly drawnIt stops suddenly half open,Or, like grief itself, filled with gentle hope,It becomes lighter in the shore-less dark,Thus the moon barely wanesWinding her way above the storm-tossed sea.Stand upon this hill and behold endlesslyThis scene of a formidable sea,And it will seem to thee a waking dream.That secret mind flowing in theeWhich even the day cannot scatter,The serenity of thinking and the beating of the heartWill enchain thee in this vision;This golden-silver moon Standing lonely over the sea,All curtain the grief of even the hopeless.And it appears that through the tempestMoves a light caressing wind,While the sea swells up with a roar,Sometimes, like a battlefield it looks to me The tempestuous sea,Where the moon itself is a brilliant golden crownOf a great king.But even that moon is always beneath theeOh Master most high,Oh forgive thou meIf even this master was frightened for a momentOh, noble moment, by art betrayed…And how may one not delight in thee,Oh thou young boy, but forgive thou me,If I shall bend my white headBefore thy art divine Thy bliss-wrought genius...””
“...indistinctness is my forte...””
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