Friday, November 19, 2010
If you want to be found by nature, you’ll be found. The ends to which nature must to go find one are, sometimes, a bit extreme.
Despite a headache, the drive was easy; parking was easy; the line to the Post-Impressionist Exhibit was easy. The crowds in front of the paintings...not so easy.
One painting, isn’t it often this way, made the headache and the crowds worthwhile. Or it nearly did. In a few days, the crowds and the headache will diminish in size but the painting will grow, and its presence in my life will linger.
The Little Peasant in Blue, by George Seurat. And more so because he painted it toward the end of his life, in 1882. The picture of a young man, a boy really, is not done in his pointalist style. The strokes are wide, more like leaves or blades of grass. So perfect—he’s standing in a field of green, far more ground than sky in the painting. It’s his face that held me close. Since it’s a small picture, placed in a corner, not too many others pushed to get in front of it. I stood there for a long time. His eyes were soil brown, pensive and tender. His mouth was barely there. Just a rough series of thick lines, nearly the color of his cheeks and chin. What did Seurat mean to say? What do I not understand?
What I do: nature found me here, too, in the sky of the boy’s shirt, int the earth of his eyes, in the painting’s strokes of grass.
Posted by Patrice Vecchione at 8:23 AM