Thursday, February 26, 2015
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Frans Hals, The Marriage Portrait of Isaac Massa and Beatrix van der Laen, 1622, 140 cm × 166.5 cm, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam
For the past three weeks I have visited this engaging picture, nearly daily. Perhaps five times a week. Only recently have I begun to see it in whole new ways; every minute I spend looking at this canvas, rewards me with visual delight. It's almost overwhelming, how much there actually is to be seen within it, when one takes the time to truly look. And there are actually seven people within its garden scene. Seven. Who knew? Each time I stand before it, I see something new. That must be one prerequisite for a great painting: its ability to delight the senses endlessly, infinitely.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Today I went running. I haven't ran too often this past month. I've too consumed with other things. I ran today and it was nice. It wasn't overtly easy, and it was too difficult, either. I ran from my house to the Oostelijk Havengebied (the Eastern Docklands); one of the most magical of places within this city–whimsical bridges specialty made for foot, are abound. This red bridge (and there is another parallel, similar in stature), pedestrian and ever-so-inviting, makes everything about the moment I run over its crest most joyous; my soul lifts in delight as the symphonic sounds of waves on the water's surface also crest, to the left, right, and below me. Thereafter, throughout days I do run over this most wonderous red bridge, those days have difficulty finding signs of sorrow–this bridge make the days that I do run over it, much more fun. Today while running this route–to the red bridges and back–a woman was tending to the plants in front of and alongside of her house. Digging and fumbling and pulling and guessing; as she tended to her tiny urban city sidewalk, as a young runner of 29, dark blonde hair, running tights and all, ran past a furious rate. She wondered, 'Where is that runner going and why is he going so fast?' The man running at a steady pace, past the woman tending to her curbside garden asked to himself, as he passed her, 'What is that woman thinking? And are her thoughts as beautiful as those of Dominique, and if so, perhaps they're just not yet on paper?' The man will never know what, exactly, the woman whom he pasted that Sunday morning while jogging was thinking; perhaps she was considering spring? What the man who ran past her will know, though, is that surely her actions are a sign of spring; as the days lighten, a new side of the city begins emerge...