Life, 1922-09-07 · page 15 of 44
Life — September 7, 1922 — page 15: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This satirical piece mocks romantic idealization across history. The illustration depicts a woman in classical dress surrounded by elaborate, ornate detail work—representing "mythic Jasmine" and "azure barque" references from the text. The satire targets how lovers romanticize their relationships through historical and literary references. The text humorously catalogs overwrought romantic language: references to Cleopatra, Babylon, the "Honeymoon Ship," and classical mythology like Cupid and Madame Blavatsky. Barton's point appears to be deflating pretentious romantic notions—suggesting that beneath all this flowery historical-mythological language, modern lovers are simply engaging in ordinary domestic situations, occasionally punctuated by marital discord ("police-blotter"). It's a critique of artificial sentimentality in love.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
x LIFE — SUNDAY EDITION Love Through the Ages Drawn by RALPH BARTON H, Dan Cupid! When first your azure barque swiftly flew A across the myrtle and jasmine abyss of wingéd gossamer, little thought you that your nymph-haunted tresses would span some rich-embroidered Illyrian vale. Yet—and yet, like the crimson stained serviette of a watermelon-eater, the gentle magic of your sweet sylvan music is heard through opal-hued anemones, and you know it. O Love! O Life! O-Boy! The sheep are shod in Arcady, but what care the pair of turtle- doves in the—the—drawing? She, one of Cleopatra’s handmaidens; he, her dancing-partner. Her eyes of pearl and porphyry roll like a becalméd shallop in an urn of lucid jade. His oafish smirk is love-born. For ‘twas the silly season in Babylon as these- twain billed and cooed. Whispering sweet nothings into the chou-fleur ear of a nearby mask of Buddha, they seal their lips with a tender and tremulous buss. The whole thing is perfectly sticky. But, lo! With panting strides doth Cupid beat it down the ages holding, ’twixt fat thumb and forefinger, the Spark of Love. Chid- den on his lime-strewn way by ebon-orbed faeries, his clattering AIG -SAS = SNF, hoofs pay no heed to the parchéd lips of the Great Lovers of History Passes he by Abraham Lincoln, Diogenes, Mark Hanna, Susan B. Anthony—all !—and plants the spark from that far Caledonian shore fair in the bosoms of a simple gunman and his moll. Anon, he looks on her and she on him with eyebrows heaving like those of some exotic camel weeping under a straw. With twining hands, they make their way through marble veneeréd halls to launch the Honey- moon Ship, for there was always one—and will always be. No use to eat the great gold world and have a silver-lined one, for she is the pomme-de-terre of his eye and he of hers. Sing ho! Ship ahoy! Honeymoon Ship is on its way and no man shall put asunder the amethyst waves of lace-like joy-tears that bear the pre- cious burthen straight adown the pomegranate path into the purple mystery of Alimony. Yes, there they shall go—him and her. Only Cupid and Madame Blatvatsky know the thin secret of their former lives—though, *course, there may be a WORD or two thereanent on a sable-splotched police-blotter here and there. (With no apologies to Our Nell Brinkley) comicbooks.com