Sir Alfred James Munnings
the Hop Picker
circa 1910
This is a glorious scene of time in a moment of rest. On this particular day, the lighting of the late sun is apparently so rich that it appears to melt the many tips of reedy bushes, its heat clumping them together into slanting, waxy masses. Coloured a deep molasses, these islands swoon with the occasional whispers of wind, their flaky leaves stemming nearer to the ground rattling with a low hum, one that seems to swim on the air like an invisible school of fish. The earth is cool and soft, pillowed with damp bits of shrub and fallen plant. To one whose mind is lethargic and heavy, the boundaries of imagination are found to be looser, and it is perhaps that for this young man these melting islands form his own protective forest. It blocks all from his mind but for the two best views of all: his immediate surroundings and, of course, the sky. Both require a scrutinisation that is indeed active, but never truly tiresome. It is here that nature entices one’s whole being best, nesting a spot that welcomes the wanderings of those wishing to be lost, if only for a while, and that forbids either persistent worry or casual idleness to keep too tight a hold for too long. What is painted here is a gateway, an impression; its entrance leads always into boundless and amicable fields, but it is an entrance that is known only to those who hold the true key to solitude.
