12th Annual Bethesda Row Arts Festival, Maryland
Saturday, October 17th from 11am – 6pm
Sunday, October 18th from 11am – 5pm
Each October, the streets of Bethesda Row are transformed into an outdoor art gallery of spectacular fine arts and crafts. More than 200,000 people have enjoyed the Bethesda Row Arts Festival in the heart of Bethesda’s designated Arts & Entertainment District since it began in 1997. This year many of the world's finest arts and crafts will be presented.
The Festival, underwritten by Federal Realty Investment Trust, features the work of 180 leading artists and crafters from the Mid-Atlantic and around the country. On display will be the finest in: ceramics, drawings, fabrics, glass, graphics, jewelry, metalwork, paintings, pastels, photography, printmaking, sculpture, wood and mixed media.
The outdoor event is held rain or shine on Bethesda Row located on Woodmont and Bethesda Avenues, and Elm Street, east of Arlington Road. The festival is in easy walking distance from the Bethesda Metro station and 15 minutes from downtown Metrorail stops.
Image: Ex libris (etching/aquatint) I made for Ilona Gargajina in 1996. This bookplate was a part of exhibit dedicated to Paul Verlaine, French Poet.
Here is very interesting page about translating Verlaine.
ОСЕННЯЯ ПЕСНЯ
Долгие песни
Скрипки осенней
Зов неотвязный,
Сердце мне ранят,
Думы туманят,
Однообразно.
Сплю, холодею,
Вздрогнув, бледнею
С боем полночи.
Вспомнится что-то.
Все без отчета
Выплачут очи.
Выйду я в поле.
Ветер на воле
Мечется, смелый.
Схватит он, бросит,
Словно уносит
Лист пожелтелый.
(Перевод В. Брюсов)
Autumn Song, By Paul Verlaine The long sighs All stifling And I let myself go Paul-Marie Verlaine Chanson d’Automne Les sanglots longs Tout suffocant Et je m’en vais
Translation by Eli Siegel
Of the violins
Of autumn
Hurt my heart
With a languor
Of sameness.
And pale, when
The hour sounds,
I remember
Days of once
And I weep.
With the evil wind
Which carries me
Here, beyond,
Like the leaf
Which has died.
Des violons
De l’automne
Blessent mon cœur
D’une langueur
Monotone.
Et blême, quand
Sonne l’heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure;
Au vent mauvais
Qui m’emporte
Deçà, delà,
Pareil à la
Feuille morte.
