If only we could be

as created

as designed

as intended by one mind;

if only we could see

what is

what deceives

the lies of one's eyes;

if only we could hear

guide of melody

wisdom of harmony

the chorus of harmonies;

let resound

the dissonance of tuning

for the chorus of harmonies.

In the blazing heat of this Mediterranean afternoon, nothing rests. Against a ground scored as if by some invisible torrent, intense green olive trees twist and crimp, capped by the rolling, dwindling hillocks of the distant Alps, beneath a light-washed sky with a bundled, ectoplasmic cloud.

After van Gogh voluntarily entered the asylum at Saint-Rémy in the south of France in the spring of 1889, he wrote his brother Theo: "I did a landscape with olive trees and also a new study of a starry sky." Later, when the pictures had dried, he sent both of them to Theo in Paris, noting: "The olive trees with the white cloud and the mountains behind, as well as the rise of the moon and the night effect, are exaggerations from the point of view of the general arrangement; the outlines are accentuated as in some old woodcuts."

Van Gogh's letters make it clear that he created this particular intense vista of the southern French landscape as a daylight partner to the visionary nocturne of his more famous canvas, The Starry Night. He felt that both pictures showed, in complementary ways, the principles he shared with his fellow painter Paul Gauguin, regarding the freedom of the artist to go beyond "the photographic and silly perfection of some painters" and intensify the experience of color and linear rhythms. (MOMA)

I have been thinking about this description of Van Gogh's "The Olive Trees" ever since I saw it at the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) in New York. There are several reasons why I have returned to a quiet reading of the description with recurring delight. The painting is so well described in just the first two sentences that I chose not to upload and include in this post the online image of the painting.

The quotations from Van Gogh's letters remind me of one reason why I do not like certain types of modern art. In the letters cited Van Gogh shares his premeditated interpretation of his work; he boldly paints with strokes that are intentional. Some modern artists create works that by self-proclamation have no original intention; rather, the interpretation is "created" by the viewer. I suppose that the artist hopes to convince viewers that a contemporary interpretation should accompany a modern work of art. This is the art of cowardice, at best, and the deception of ignorance, at worst. Ambulating through the collections of the MOMA, I realized that one way I evaluate art is by asking, "Would I see this work of art in heaven?"

A middle-aged man initiated a conversation with me on my flight yesterday afternoon. He was more interested in asserting and hearing agreement with his strong opinions than in engaging in what I would call "open" conversation. His door is already closed, and he will not open the door to a knock; although, he will knock back when he hears a knock that sounds like his. But perhaps most people appear this way at first talk.

Another conversation today reminded me of my neighbor on the plane. Some people strike me as having confident convictions about phenomena so broad that are, yet, based on the limitations of their experience.

More to come on this. For now, bon Jour du Macaron!