Pieter Brueghel’s populous
canvases inspire finger-pointing. Boys play kick-to-kick, schoolgirls prove
their dress sense, a circle of lonely hearts talk into cells. In a variation of
Where’s Wally, we look amid distant trees for wise men. We strive to locate the
Nativity in a back shed. But his landscapes are active moralities. In the
panoramic ‘July Parables’ spenders rub note-motes from their eyes while the
national leader lies weighed under billionaire-logs. Overweight peasants leave
food lying about for foxes while refugees starve at opulent gates of an estate
suburb. Men dig a coal mine deep enough to bury them alive.
No comments:
Post a Comment