Letter (June)

Re-reading Proust, the thousands of squares that comprise his sustained memory play, which we look at with why, wherefore, when, what, who… Sometimes it looks easy. Even one square is at once a matter of wonder and questions. As when Marcel, by surprise, receives a letter from the source of his secret passion, Gilberte: “And thought cannot instantly assimilate a sheet of paper covered in letters.” Like getting text from the very person we would least expect, but delight in. Instead of reading each word like city streets of passing shops, there’s only gorgeous rain filling vision from June skies.

Seascape (June)

'Seascape near Les-Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer', 1888.

Visiting Van Gogh, his world as much elation as anguish. Lively and bright is the sea near Les Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer on what must be a May or June day in the northern hemisphere. Perfect sailing weather: fairly flat water and good breezes. Someone could go out all day, without a care in the world. In the middle distance a boat, interior red, is going the clappers over deep blue. Same red as his signature lower left. A signature with the flow and curve of the boat, because Vincent’s the boat, racing over blue, forgetting for now family troubles, painting, money, people…

Self-portrait (June)

'Self-portrait dedicated to Paul Gauguin', 1888.

Visiting Van Gogh, we notice Rembrandt gazing over his shoulder, test of intensities of mood. What does a selfie mean to anyone, outside those who know the portraitist? Just another face in the crowd. While here is someone in some act of rebellion against the literalness of cameras. For humans, there’s no end of fascination with the human face. Inscrutable as January, radiant as June. Only, what is a portrait saying? More ink’s been spilt on this question than is measurable, and paint, pencil, crayon, emulsion. Pixels are innumerable as grains of sand and still time time is running out.