Cows are sizable animals, yet in two of these paintings the artist makes them appear small. This contrast characterizes them as helpless, as if a part of a machine controlled by an invisible giant, possibly a tyrant. We realize that the machine is the cattle industry whereas the giant is the man behind it. I think that in this setting the images will elicit different emotions from different people: remorse and pity from some, curiosity and indifference from others. I don’t think, however, that the artist intended to judge the audience. Instead he focuses solely on the theme; he presents his inarticulate models as either content and oblivious, when in a rural environment, or, as irritated, confused and alert when in a large-scale farm or auction theater.
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This painting (Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister, Dresden) combines secular and earthly clerical elements with the divine in an ostensible theatrical interplay. The lid of the coffin of Pope Julius II forms the stage, while the tableau curtains are drawn apart to reveal the divine action.
This hierarchical pastiche communicates the heavens to the devout in a known way: from the bottom of the painting — the church, along with its highest representative, — through the center, where the saints hover, — and to the top, where Mary with baby Christ on her hands treads the clouds. The myriad of seraphs in the background testifies to the transparency of the scene to both worlds, and its consequent significance to our existence here, as well as there. Perhaps the artist intended for every little alabaster face to find a counterpart in someone on the side of the beholder.
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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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