Ivan Choultsé

Ivan Choultsé

Traces dans la Neige (en Suisse)

circa early twentieth century (?)

     Though it is not winter, the mood of this picture can be felt with every season. The size, the depth, of time; the feeling of living without restrictions; the illusion of knowing, of seeing, more than what is really there - these are thoughts that merge with sudden clarity, like the tracks in the snow. But the moment they come together a part of the clarity begins to break away; the sharpness of what seemed to be so clear starts to lose shape, to melt.

    These moments take over our minds unexpectedly. They represent the epitome of personal discovery and last only for as long as we can remain focused. Their beauty lies in how little warning they give us before they arrive; in how forcefully they channel us into questioning ideas we never knew that we had; and in how temporarily they linger with us before floating away. Usually we are left with just their fossils - the immediate impressions they leave in their shadow, the remaining particles of their heavy perfume - and for a while we sift through these fragments until, gradually, they lose their original meanings altogether, leaving us with no more than the traces of their once shortly-lived lives. Like ever-changing clouds and currents things are meant to evolve with the purpose of leaving behind a piece that explains the reason for which they evolved, not the reason for which they existed. And as with our thoughts we only truly understand them once they leave us - once they recede and, inevitably, disappear completely.

John Singer Sargent

John Singer Sargent

Mme Gautreau Drinking a Toast

circa 1883

     The gâteau-shaped lamp floating in the top corner looks like a precursor of the Chinese lanterns in Sargent's Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose (circa 1885-86), though this one is far more 'impressionistic' and discreet in shape. It is tiered with what seems like delicate, expandable paper or cloth that, if indeed a source of light, veils the brightness in an eerie glow. As Mme holds her glass with an outstretched arm, the viewer momentarily mistakes its conical shape to be the lamp's support, only to realise that everything but its shade is bathed in the velvety black that surges around the contours of the woman's body.

     She is bright and alive. Her skin is as luminous as any light, but is ignited by a different source, perhaps. Suggestively immodest, though not vulgar, she dreamily toasts with an unseen companion as her swathe of mauve tulle hangs loosely around her shoulders. Its stiff panes of material seem coarse against her body, but soft enough to echo the powdery finish of the flower petals over which she extends her porcelain arm. With her left elbow resting on the edge of the wooden table, the mahogany or walnut of which mirrors the richness of her hair, she takes on a pose that implies her self-confidence and ease with the situation. She is a woman in control of her life and unaffected by customs, and most of all one who is aware that at the end of every day comes the need to toast to the imminent arrival of the next - like extinguishing a lamp, only to light it again.

Berthe Morisot

Berthe Morisot

La Pomme coupée et le Pichet (nature morte)

circa 1876

     The apple's white flesh gawps like an open mouth. It lounges on the table like a fruit too lazy to care, too relaxed to consider its modesty. It seems to have taken pleasure in being sliced apart by the knife because an element of self-pride oozes from its cut. Shadowed by the brilliance of the shiny pitcher, the apple strains to show all that it can; to prove that it is prettier than its neighbour (and maybe the other apple, too). Rather than assuming the pitcher's grace and indifference, the apple is an exhibitionist; it calls attention to its green skin and natural, succulent curves as it poses and 'yawns' about without taste - and without realising that its efforts are, ironically, fruitless.

     Artificial and empty, the pitcher only holds value in its function and shiny appeal; it is made of a material already tamed and understood by human-kind and it therefore does not hold innate beauty. Whereas the apple, wild and unpredictable, is not understood: it is an organic, shape-shifting thing that does not fit into a mould but grows constantly and irregularly, making its core of existence all the more beautiful than the pitcher's. It has nothing to prove, nothing to compete against and no reason to make a show of itself. The knife, the compositional balance of this picture, is what divides the apple from the true fraud and, in a way, also 'points' to the only centre of beauty: nature.