It was the blueness Capturing the senses Bigger than comprehension Much bigger Skies swirled With light on the move Each one out there...a sun Imagine And a flow of sheen West to east As if spilled milk Small town was featured Only few homes With detail And one reaching Hopeful steeple Also a gracious cedar Made larger than life Older than the rest It seemed Surrounding hills and bush Like creeping lion's paws Trying to reclaim The lot. All much too large For any mind to grasp Clearly But he had tried Vincent had And we still honour His brilliant impression In our front hall.
I have become fascinated with the story and the painting of James Tissot.
For years he captured with great realism the gaiety and dissipation of higher society in Paris and in London. The pictures were exquisite but the messages were all fleeting.
Late in life the man experienced a sincere conversion to Christianity and came under the compulsion to dedicate his significant talents to telling the story of Jesus. He delighted in several trips to the Holy Land. His work became more impressionistic with rather drab and sketchy representations of landscape and village, of heat and dust. But his characters, Jesus and following, and his story suggestions were brilliant.
Clearly the man was in a hurry to tell the Old Story. More than 400 paintings on display at one time in New York (1899)!
Perhaps the following poem will fill in some more blanks:
Tissot Comes Alive
So little time,
So much to paint
Of lasting worth.
The years mis-spent.
The social rave.
The treats of earth.
Those cities gay