Milkmaid

"The Milkmaid" by Johannes Vermeer was probably painted in 1658 and is displayed in The Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. Vermeer created several paintings that were illuminated like this one - via the window on the left. Following his death in 1675, Vermeer's paintings were  largely ignored until an influential  French art historian began to sing his praises in the 1860's.

There is a lot more that could be said about this painting including its precision, its use of colour and the Dutch tradition of making images of maids. However, what I mostly wish to say is that I greatly admire this work. Because of a framed print my parents displayed in my childhood home, I have known it all my life. It seems almost timeless and celebrates the dignity of labour though I doubt that Vermeer saw it that way.

I imagine the model may have moaned to the artist, "Mr Vermeer, how much longer do I have to hold this bloody jug?  My arm is killing me!" Little did she know that over 360 years later  her sturdy image would be world famous.

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Chins Up

Not long to go! Chins up

Just caught up with boris 

 

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Spring

 

I couldn’t quite believe the blue of the sky this afternoon. The temperature and feeling around the village was springlike and after a short sleep Mary and I went out to post letters.

Today is the first day of Bridget’s foodbank and the telephone box on Well Street was filled

The younger children are back in school and their squeals at playtime made Trelawnyd come alive ago

The chapel and Christine and Bryn’s old house is up for sale.

It doesn’t look as though it was originally built in 1700. 

Once a corn and wheat market hall , then later a chapel, I wonder what it’s next resurrection will be 

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Heart

 What’s on your heart today?

Hold me 

In the arms

That never 

Loosen its grip

From

My sweaty

Palms

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Somewhere

Oh, this could be the end of everything

So why don't we go somewhere only we know?

Somewhere only we know

Somewhere only we know

Keane (2004)

White the sand and sapphire blue the ocean. The bay curves round to the headland  where pigs root in  emerald undergrowth under elegant coconut palms. The trees reach up.  Their crowns are feathery fronds that rustle on the breeze.

There is nobody else on the beach - no one at all. It's always like this at this time of day. Above, wisps of cloud move in slow motion across the endless blue canopy. 

How many centuries and how many tiny fragments of bleached shell and coral have conspired to form this fabulous beach? Uncountable. A hundred yards away, the vast Pacific booms upon the edge of the reef like a chorus of bass drums but here at Mofmanu, there is a gap. You can swim far out if you wish.

I leave "Cannery Row" with my striped towel and paddle. How kind the water feels. Soon I am swimming with colourful  fishes by the wall of the reef. They dart in and out of the clefts and hollows. Some are alone and others form small shoals that catch the sunlight from above like tiny mirrors. Pieces of a rainbow. I see the arm of an octopus retracting.

As you move further out, the water deepens and the shadowy fathoms beyond the reef soon become the colour of midnight. You feel the muscular contractions of the sea. Please take care. There be sea dragons and the swells could easily dash you against this  abrasive coral.

But it's not a dragon that brushes by me. It's a reef shark - as long as I am. My heart skips a beat but with aerodynamic ease he flicks his tail and moves on - entirely at home in his aquatic universe. I head for shore. Not panicking but nonetheless disturbed. 

My body dries in  late afternoon warmth. There are no ships on the horizon because there never are. Sometimes I think of home but it is so far away that I almost believe I dreamed it. At the far end of the beach, by the promontory, the pigs are now swimming. I can see the silhouette of the boy who unlatched their gate as I head back, leaving footprints in the sand.

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