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describe the twinned possibilities of the painter's world: as the reclining man points into the painting, into the fictive space that the artist imagines, the traveler points across the surface of the canvas, across the primary plane on which the artist does his work. Through these two gestures we are invited to admire the artist's world in all its variety: not only the young men on horseback, but also the mirror-like pond, the softly bending trees, the rustic buildings, the distant mountains. The painting--bathed in a delicate, penetrating light--is a dream that awakens us to the challenges of reality.
Jed Perl is The New Republic's art critic.
By Jed Perl
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Talk Birdy to Me
needs-info6 comments12:00 am Recently, I wandered through "Audubon's Aviary," an exhibit at the New York Historical Society featuring watercolors by John James Audubon of birds that have, since Audubon painted them in the first half of the nineteenth century, become endangered or extinct. It was the right place to think about loss and the natural world. But, although death was everywhere apparent in the show, it was not a lugubrious place: Cries of birds--whooping crane, crested caracara--were piped in, and video images of actual birds appeared on a screen. And, of course, there were Audubon's grand paintings, part of his vast enterprise to paint in life-size every bird in America. His paintings, and the exhibition, made me think of a line in Randall Jarrell's poem about the mockingbird:
