Tuesday, October 05, 2010

reverse impressionism

I read about a special exhibit in Paris. One that opened this week and will run through nearly the end of January. Paintings of Monet.

I’m one who loves Monet – evocation of earthy, light filled beauty is something that I admire so much on a canvas that it could be argued I am inclined to look for something comparable, above all else, when I am out and about with my camera hanging over my shoulder (that’s a constant: it’s always hanging over my shoulder).

If a canvas, say by Monet or Pissarro, or Sisley (to stay with the greats) is to convey a sense of life in harmony with the great outdoors, through brush strokes that give the essence rather than the detail of a given scene, leaving you to form that lovely impression of, say, a haystack in a winter sunset, or a romp through a field of poppies, then I think what happens as I bike in these glorious days of sunshine and of early fall color is that suddenly I see myself as if I were in a painting. Their painting. Is it that I want not to let go of the perfection of that given moment?

There are times when a photo will do. This afternoon, for instance, on the Union Terrace.


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Even though it was quite warm for October, the terrace chairs were mostly empty, as if no one could quite believe our luck with the weather.


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But there are moments when I think that a photo will not do. Later, on the lakeside bike path, for example. In my mind, a painting is so much more suitable to the grandness of the moment. Here, on the woody and dappled path, a photo is too blunt, too sharp and contoured. The trees, in their golden shimmer, play with your senses, creating images closer to those painted by the greats. Maybe you’ll agree?



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