Once again, the sheer physicality and the rhythmic movements of the gleaning process build up to a stable emotional effect — subtler, to my mind, than a direct one would be, ensuing from more detailed facial expressions. The three figures blend well with the surroundings: they are just another group of workers; in the distance we see yet another one. Because of this commonness, the artist’s choice appears more random than purposeful. The women are a part of the whole, and not, as other interpreters suggest, a grand exposition of peasantry and farming. The background constantly seeps from in between and above the gleaners — in a way, it also encloses and traps, perhaps even stifles the workers in grave allusion on peasant life. It’s a familiar but not necessarily friendly environment. I find this scene mundane thematically but intricate artistically. The merit of this piece lies in the dance-like composition rather than in heroic symbolism, as other viewings suggest.
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This is a very dynamic image: the bodies of the workers are sharply bent towards different, sometimes opposing directions, creating a swirling rhythm that dominates the scene completely. Labor — the activity of logging — becomes the protagonist; faces are covered to let the bodily movements speak. The three men form a triangle that serves as an abstract geometrical formula for the sweaty dance they perform. Every part of the body engages in the process. The leg muscles of the central figure are bulging, the shoulders and the back of the man on the left are fully engaged and the torso of the farthest logger is strained to the maximum. The giant trees further emphasize the energy involved in their cutting; they are formidable opponents and give in slowly and without the enthusiasm of the men. The monumental struggle between the two sides reveals the hardships of this livelihood, but also marks it as aesthetically and symbolically meaningful. A sense of pride and self-respect hovers above these hard workers.
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I once went to a hospital to make some tests, and had to wait in a line for an hour or so. I hadn’t brought a book to occupy myself with, and, as it happens in such cases, entertained myself by looking around and stealthily examining the people waiting for their call. After a few minutes a couple with twin babies arrived, maybe one-year-olds, the mother was the patient, not the children. Behind them walked a fussing grandmother, constantly reminding the younger woman that it was time to “feed the young.” Eventually the mother conceded the role of the nurturer and the feast began: the old lady took out a jar of commercial fruit mush and began forcing giant sized spoons into the babies’ mouths, cheering if at least half of the mix ended up inside. The babies seemed unhappy… they were so plump as it is, and their cheeks were almost the size of their head! After less than two spoons they were turning their lips away, peeping. The children on the painting in front of us, however, don’t seem to suffer from overfeeding.
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I would be tempted to label this painting as romantic and pastoral if it weren’t for the girl’s facial expression. Her concerned and busy-like countenance infuses a down do earth (literally as well), occupied atmosphere, ruling out the dreamy and exalted element of romanticism. It seems that she would not indulge in admiring the nature around her; on the contrary, she turns her back to it, as if hiding something. It is difficult to discern what is it that she holds or does with her hands, but it may appear as if she were clutching a rosary and praying. If this is the case, then one could assume that even her prayers are directed towards asking for corporeal benefits, so sullen she looks. Perhaps she isn’t even praying, but merely counting the beads, as if trying to realize whether they can help her with her ragged situation. And perhaps, her mind is elsewhere, and the rosary is only the distraction. One thing is clear: as a result, she has frozen, inadvertently turning into a living monument.
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I have always responded equivocally to Jean-Francois Millet . There is an undeniable charm to his artwork, but it may sometimes seem too charming — too dolce . His lines end just where they are supposed to, and even a little prematurely, turning to describe a round angle instead of a sharp one, as if avoiding a confrontation. The artist seems to strive to smooth out every possible roughness of a body part or a piece of clothing, in what appears like a naive or even Utopian exercise… Or does it? I have pondered over this stylistic peculiarity, trying to find its deeper, underlying reasons, because each time, after looking at Millet, I was consistently left with a feeling that I was missing something. I needed a hypothesis to counter that nagging sense of miscomprehension — and I think, or at least I hope that I found one. Its premise relies on the rejection of traditional relationship between the observer and the work of art; the observer needs to make a certain concession and ignore the initial negative response. This action does not guarantee a more positive reaction to the artwork, but it will ensure more objective interpretation.
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