From the Wall Street Journal (June 19, 2020):
…what perhaps absorbed him most was a suite of 10 paintings of one of the weeping willows he had planted on the shores of his pond in 1893, when he had purchased the property to construct his aquatic paradise. The tree had grown in girth and grandeur over the intervening years, its leafy arms now extending out over the dappled waters like an impassioned conductor energizing an orchestra.
The trees in Monet’s water garden are much less known than the flowers, but they were central to his vision of what that ideal space should include and thus dear to his heart. In 1912, when severe winds and rains wreaked havoc on his horticultural handiwork, what Monet mourned most was the damage to his willows.
Weeping willows, of course, evoke mourning by their very appearance no less than by their appellation, their drooping tendrils the very symbol of sorrow. It’s therefore not surprising, given Monet’s sensitivity to his nation’s plight, that he turned to this tree to express the trauma of the moment.
In this week’s episode of “Cocktails with a Curator,” Curator Aimee Ng studies Thomas Gainsborough’s scandalous portrait of Grace Dalrymple Elliott. Discover why this painting met with a negative reception when it was shown at the Royal Academy in 1782. Mrs. Elliott later moved to France, where she lived through the Reign of Terror and died in 1823 in the outskirts of Paris. This week’s complementary cocktail is the Pimm’s Cup, a traditional summer drink in Britain.
In his paintings we see books on their own, or books in the company of people or other objects; small, lonely ziggurats of books, or a book beside a candle. That last juxtaposition is telling in the extreme. Vincent had a reverence for books. They were sacred ground. They have a kind of inner glow about them.
With every sparkling joke, every well-meaning and innocent character, every farcical tussle with angry swans and pet Pekingese, every utopian description of a stroll around the grounds of a pal’s stately home or a flutter on the choir boys’ hundred yards handicap at a summer village fete, he wanted to whisk us far away from our worries.
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A bird-monster devouring sinners, naked bodies in tantric contortions, a pair of ears brandishing a sharpened blade: with just 20 paintings and nine drawings to his name, Netherlandish visionary 
