I mentioned yesterday how Edward Snow's Vermeer really opened my eyes to the myriad ways of looking at paintings (and all art for that matter) when I read it last summer. He writes with such grace and dexterity, tending to leave aside biographical information to burrow directly into an artist's work, looking real deeply, hitting on so many intricate details to bring out each painting's full power - it's an incredible, moving monograph that I recommend unreservedly.
Inspired by Snow's rhapsodising, I took a fresh look at the two Vermeer paintings the National Gallery in London have in their collection, and they just blossomed in front of my eyes thanks to his inspirational insights. The Vermeer book is particularly great because it isn't obsessed with telling you what to think - it's equally concerned with showing ways how to think. The fact that Lady Standing at a Virginal and Lady Seated at a Virginal are maybe two of the least interesting Vermeer paintings (to me at least!) meant I was extra keen to go the galleries that are showing his work that I do unreservedly love. So it's unsurprising that one of the highlights of my Paris visit last October was seeing Vermeer's The Astronomer in the Louvre. It's a painting that Snow only mentions in passing, and so here, inspired by Snow's ways of seeing, is a brief note of my own about a painting that constantly rewards my fascination:
Because of the intricate connections between Vermeer's paintings, maybe it's worth mentioning how The Astronomer sits within the rest of his oeuvre. With an artist who has just over 30 works attributed to him it's not too difficult a task. Most explicitly it pairs up with The Geographer, a painting of most likely the same individual as in The Astronomer who's equally engaged in the pursuit of knowledge (on the ground instead of the stars). Like so many of Vermeer's paintings, the subject is a solitary individual, but The Astronomer and The Geographer are the only ones of males. As with all but two of his works the setting is an interior, seemingly the same room as The Geographer, but then again all interiors in Vermeer appear to be the same.
Anyway, one of the exciting aspects of this painting is how there's a constant set of transferences between stillness and movement. It takes on the appearance of a fairly peaceful scene with a scholar settling down to work. His right hand rests on the celestial globe and the stars seem within his grasp - he's a real encapsulation of the Enlightenment ideals. But look again: see how his left hand is positioned on the table, and it seems as though he's had to steady himself from toppling out of his chair. As the shadows engulf the joint of his elbow it appears as though his left hand will give way. Is he steadying himself on the table because he can't comprehend the magnitude of the stars? Is the globe steady in the astronomer's hand or is it unstable, spinning towards or away like the Girl With A Pearl Earring?
His hands reach out to create a triangle in the centre of the painting that foregrounds The Astronomer's central concerns, acting as a prism that ultimately balances the conflicting impulses the work triggers, especially between the knowable and unknowable - see how the right hand (pointing upwards) is touching the globe that links to the light and the stars, whereas the left hand (pointing downwards) is touching the table cloth that heads down to the ground. Hazy light from above plays off against the raw materials at hand. Or is this a triangle of Heaven (globe), Hell (cloth) and Purgatory (the man)?
The painting cuts great diagonal swathes from the top left to the bottom right of the canvas. The light in the top left hand corner streams down into the room, as do the books on top of the cabinet. There's a similar motion with the shadows the cabinet creates as well as the line of the astronomer's back. Is the line heading up or down? Are these books of knowledge tumbling down to the ground? Is the light cascading into the room or is it being held in check by the astronomer's light-dappled face that returns its glare? It's these kind of complexities and beautiful balancing acts that make Vermeer's art resonate so deeply.
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