Breton Woman with a Hayfield
circa 1890
In this scene a sense of repressed disorder emerges from the colours and shapes of the nature. The trees’ trunks and branches seem to be awaking from an intense sleep, but they only pretend to twist and stretch their limbs in attempt to lean closer to one another - almost as if to share a secret that they wish to keep from the lone woman. The tendrils of the rose bush also suggest a strange, questionable behaviour: as they slowly unfurl the budding stems remain visible against the dark mass of background foliage, implying a wandering promiscuity behind their intentions. They want to be seen; they crave the limelight. So are they really as innocent and absent-minded as their supple, new-borne blossoms suggest, or do more sinister, threatening thoughts underlie their playful dance? Mirroring this thought is the field of hay. The sticks of golden yellows appear to impatiently thrust themselves in unison beyond the border that keeps them from disrupting the peace of the small pasture and of the woman’s pensive state. They form a fiery crest that visually overpowers the shy greenery and attempts to curve outwards into the plane of the viewer. Like an aggressive wall of fire daring to spill over its boundaries this crest gives an ominous air to the painting. It reminds one of the fine line that divides humanity from nature - whether the two entities are one in the same (could the tree be growing out of the woman’s shoulder?) or whether they are growing farther apart over time – as well as sheds doubt on whether the viewer is part of the wilderness or not.
