The young alder and ash shown here are among the most convincing and original renderings of trees in 17th-century art. Both species abound in the river landscapes in which Segers travelled around.
Rijksmuseum
Saudade is an untranslatable Portuguese word. First attested in the late 13th century, saudade today connotes a melancholic feeling of incompleteness, wishful longing for wholeness, desire for presence as opposed to absence, yearning for the return of what has gone, such as experiences and pleasures once lived.
The depth of sensitivity in Rembrandt’s portrayal moves me nearly beyond words.
On the one hand, the sitter is remote to us - retreating into herself, lips parted in contemplation of something we’ll never know, fingers hidden beneath her sleeves. On the other hand, this portrait is unmistakably intimate and the sitter relatable. Rembrandt’s brush generously grants us access to an otherwise private moment in this woman’s day; I almost feel as though I’m spying on her interior. Ever the master painter.
In some respects, this reminds me of the 1630 self-portrait by Jan Lievens, who was a contemporary of Rembrandt. In others, it reminds me of a 2015 painting by Maurice Sapiro, titled Girl with Golden Hair.
Nice painting? Yes. Excuse to revisit the recognition scene between Penelope and Odysseus? I’ll take any excuse.
When she heard the sure proofs Ulysses now gave her, she fairly broke down.
She flew weeping to his side, flung her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
“Do not be angry with me Ulysses,” she cried, “you, who are the wisest of mankind. We have suffered, both of us. Heaven has denied us the happiness of spending our youth, and of growing old, together; do not then be aggrieved or take it amiss that I did not embrace you thus as soon as I saw you. I have been shuddering all the time through fear that someone might come here and deceive me with a lying story; for there are many very wicked people going about…”
Then Ulysses in his turn melted, and wept as he clasped his dear and faithful wife to his bosom.
As the sight of land is welcome to men who are swimming towards the shore, when Neptune has wrecked their ship with the fury of his winds and waves — a few alone reach the land, and these, covered with brine, are thankful when they find themselves on firm ground and out of danger — even so was her husband welcome to her as she looked upon him, and she could not tear her two fair arms from about his neck.
From the translation by Samuel Butler.
