Rare Antique French Art Pottery by Alfred Renoleau Blue Vase Pot

Rare French Art Nouveau ceramic vase of globular form by Alfred Renoleau, with very pretty crystalline bluish green crystalline glaze over a softly tone pale ochre body. An exqui...

A piriform or pear-shaped stoneware vase of Japonist inspiration. Covered with a flowing glaze in tranches of pale blue and brown and ochre by the French art ceramist Jean Pointu (18...

A large stoneware vase of Japoniste inspiration, of rare double-spout form with twin handles, covered with a flowing brown and pale blue drip-glaze over a deep blue body, by the Fren...

A rare small stoneware vase of double-gourd Japonist form, freely treated at the top rim. It has a thick brown, green ochre flowing flambe glaze. By the French art ceramist Jean Langlade...

A perfect example of a small stoneware vase of Japoniste inspiration, triangular in form with an flared top, and covered with a flowing cream, green, and blue flame glaze, flecked wi...

A small stoneware pot of Japoniste form, with a thick flowing brown to purply pink flambe glaze containing pale blue highlights, and the unglazed body attractively revealed in parts near the base to accentuate the thickness of the glaze. By the French art ceramist Jean Langlade...

Crystallized sandstone vase designed by Alfred Renoleau in the 1910s. With its modern shape and mineral hue, this ceramic will be perfect in a natural, refined and delicate decora...

Vintage Midcentury Art Pottery Studio Very Rare XL Vase by Marcel Guillot (1910 - 1985). Made in France, 1950's period. Marcel Guillot is a fellow ceramist from the same time period ...

Signed studio pottery weed pot vase. Would work well in a variety of interiors such as modern, mid century modern, Hollywood regency, etc. Piece blends seamlessly with other design...

Vintage Studio Art Pottery Modern Glossy Dark Weed Pot Vase Earle Freeman 10/75 signed 5.25 h x 3.5 diameter Preowned vintage condition Review images provided please.

This is Japanese pottery from the 15th century. This pottery was made during the Muromachi period (1400s-1500s). It is called SHIGARAKI in Japan. It is extremely beautiful from eve...

A giving joy beautiful French Fayence Floor Vase fantastic Art Nouveau pattern - Impressing Colours Manufacturer unknown - marked Design Period 1915 - 1925 Country of Manufacture : France H / height: 46 cm ~ Gew. / weight: 4550 grs DM / diameter max: 28 cm ~ DM oben / diameter inner rim: 19.8 cm .... an ode to Southern France A Legend of Provence by Adelaide Anne Procter (30 October 1825 – 2 February 1864) The lights extinguished, by the hearth I leant, Half weary with a listless discontent. The flickering giant-shadows, gathering near, Closed round me with a dim and silent fear. All dull, all dark; save when the leaping flame, Glancing, lit up a Picture's ancient frame. Above the hearth it hung. Perhaps the night, My foolish tremors, or the gleaming light, Lent power to that Portrait dark and quaint, — A Portrait such as Rembrandt loved to paint, — The likeness of a Nun. I seemed to trace A world of sorrow in the patient face, In the thin hands folded across her breast: — Its own and the room's shadow hid the rest. I gazed and dreamed, and the dull embers stirred, Till an old legend that I once had heard Came back to me; linked to the mystic gloom Of that dark Picture in the ghostly room. In the far south, where clustering vines are hung; Where first the old chivalric lays were sung; Where earliest smiled that gracious child of France, Angel and knight and fairy, called Romance, I stood one day. The warm blue June was spread Upon the earth; blue summer overhead, Without a cloud to fleck its radiant glare, Without a breath to stir its sultry air. All still, all silent, save the sobbing rush Of rippling waves, that lapsed in silver hush Upon the beach; where, glittering towards the strand The purple Mediterranean kissed the land. All still, all peaceful; when a convent chime Broke on the mid-day silence for a time, Then trembling into quiet, seemed to cease, In deeper silence and more utter peace. So as I turned to gaze, where gleaming white, Half hid by shadowy trees from passers' sight, The Convent lay, one who had dwelt for long In that fair home of ancient tale and song, Who knew the story of each cave and hill, And every haunting fancy lingering still Within the land, spake thus to me, and told The Convent's treasured Legend, quaint and old: — Long years ago, a dense and flowering wood, Still more concealed where the white convent stood, Borne on its perfumed wings the title came: " Our Lady of the Hawthorns " is its name. Then did that bell, which still rings out to-day, Bid all the country rise, or eat, or pray. Before that convent shrine, the haughty knight Passed the lone vigil of his perilous fight; For humbler cottage strife or village brawl, The Abbess listened, prayed, and settled all. Young hearts that came, weighed down by love or wrong, Left her kind presence comforted and strong. Each passing pilgrim, and each beggar's right Was food, and rest, and shelter for the night. But, more than this, the Nuns could well impart The deepest mysteries of the healing art; Their store of herbs and simples was renowned, And held in wondering faith for miles around. Thus strife, love, sorrow, good and evil fate, Found help and blessing at the convent gate. Of all the nuns, no heart was half so light, No eyelids veiling glances half as bright, No step that glided with such noiseless feet, No face that looked so tender or so sweet, No voice that rose in choir so pure, so clear, No heart to all the others half so dear, So surely touched by others' pain or woe, (Guessing the grief her young life could not know,) No soul in childlike faith so undefiled, As Sister Angela's, the " Convent Child. " For thus they loved to call her. She had known No home, no love, no kindred, save their own. An orphan, to their tender nursing given, Child, plaything, pupil, now the Bride of Heaven And she it was who trimmed the lamp's red light That swung before the altar, day and night; Her hands it was whose patient skill could trace The finest broidery, weave the costliest lace; But most of all, her first and dearest care, The office she would never miss or share, Was every day to weave fresh garlands sweet, To place before the shrine at Mary's feet. Nature is bounteous in that region fair, For even winter has her blossoms there. Thus Angela loved to count each feast the best, By telling with what flowers the shrine was dressed. In pomp supreme the countless Roses passed, Battalion on battalion thronging fast, Each with a different banner, flaming bright, Damask, or striped, or crimson, pink, or white, Until they bowed before a newborn queen, And the pure virgin Lily rose serene. Though Angela always thought the Mother blest Must love the time of her own hawthorn best, Each evening through the years, with equal care, She placed her flowers; then kneeling down in prayer, As their faint perfume rose before the shrine, So rose her thoughts, as pure and as divine. She knelt until the shades grew dim without, Till one by one the altar lights...