Benched #12: weathering the storm

Was the storm over the windmill coming or leaving? 

That was the question I pondered recently, sitting on the couch that faced the largest of Rembrandt’s landscape paintings in the National Gallery in D.C.  One side of the sky was heavy and ominous.  The other streaked with innocuous clouds.  Below, on a darkened landscape, a boat slid toward shore on a calm, reflective river.  A woman washed her clothes.  Nearby a man watched her.  Just up the road a bit, a child walked with another woman, nearly invisible in the gloom. Above it all stood a windmill, silhouetted against the shadow.



     

Storm coming?  Storm going?  It’s hard to tell.

The answer changes the tone of the painting.  If the storm is going, it’s an image filled with hope.  Coming, it’s foreboding.

Sky half full or half empty?

I like the ambiguity of art.  Nuance and uncertainty imbed in it layers of reward.  Those who walk past get a surface pleasure, but those who linger find a deeper, complex delight.



In the Rembrandt room, this murky painting was overshadowed by one of his famous self-portraits.  I love that unflinchingly honest portrait. In fact, it’s my screen on my phone. And, had the “bench” not been facing The Mill, I probably would have been like the many who passed by, merely glancing.  But I had chosen to sit and soak my senses in this landscape.  And it slowly released its treasures like a child’s hand unclenching pebbles.



It showed me that, compared to the deep pools of Rembrandt’s work, my paintings are merely puddles. It challenged me to ask myself why I shy away from darkness – both literal and figurative -- in my work.  I don’t think of myself as a shallow guy, but one wouldn’t know that by my art.

The Mill also provoked me to think about people I pass because of the time it takes to get down through their layers.  I’ve got to walk by less.  Linger more.

But mostly, it kept drawing me back to that central question: Darkness coming or leaving?  And as I sit here in a hospital room, watching a loved one recover from major surgery, I’m connecting to the hope in that painting.  The storm came, as anticipated, did its worst, and now life returns.  The sky hasn’t cleared yet, but peace dominates the landscape.  Soon, it’ll be time to do the laundry.

And in the center stands the brilliantly lit windmill, its strong, cross-like arms stretched out against the receding gloom.  It centers the painting.  It anchors the landscape.

For me, that’s one artistic element that has no ambiguity.

It’s clear as the returning day.

Rembrandt's last name: Van Rijn, literally means "of the Rhine." His father owned a mill along the river. The painting at the top is how the painting looked in the museum. This is my photoshopped lighter version which may be more like the way he saw the final painting.