Thursday, March 28, 2019
Stillness Seeking :: Personal Narrative Photographer Essays
Stillness Seeking Onto the terracotta patio I step silently preceding(a) lavender climbing twisting vinesThe honey drops sunlight sprinkledGoldenMy suffer a paintbrush in her handShe touches color to canvasSoft yellow(a) orange, lightEmergesMy father beyond resting seatedA cat slumbers purrs on his shoulderA pen in his hand he touches whiten pageReflects light reflectsTogetherCreating When I see Vermeers Girl with a Pearl Earring round five long time ago at the subject Gallery in Washington, D.C., I tangle something about the paint that I had never felt before when looking at artwork. I felt as if this girl, this young woman in the painting was real, hiding in the museum behind this canvas. She was in the flesh. Her skin was still dewy from three hundred-something years ago, the light across her face still glowing. She was in the round, her eyes followed mine, she was real. She was about to speak, she was in a hour of thought, she was in reflection. This girl was non sanguine red or titanium white, she was flesh. Vermeer caught her, a butterfly in his hand. She was not just recorded on canvas, she was created on canvas. She was caught in a moment of stillness. Vermeer creates moments in his paintings. When viewing them, we step into a private, intimate setting, a story. Always, everything is still and calm. I realize now it is no wonder I had much(prenominal) a strong reaction to Vermeer the first time I saw him he is a stillness seeker. This morning I light aboriginal from the light that creeps underneath my blinds and my bed next to the window. I wake floating on the streams of light, heated, like white wax spilled across the floor, dripping, soft. In bare feet I walking down the stairs, cold on the wood, and see my father in the kitchen, also awake early. Together, we leave the house, the house that my parents strengthened with windows like walls, windows that show the water on either side of the island. We unaired the door quietly so as not to wake the sleepers. We walk down the pine-needle path, through the arch of trees, the steep wooden steps to the track nestled in the sea-weed covered rocks. We sit silently on the bench, charm as the fog evaporates from the clear water. The trees and water are a painting in muted colors, silver and grays and greenish blue, hazy white preceding(prenominal) the trees.
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