Renoir had crippling rheumatoid arthritis — at the LACMA exhibit, there's a flickering black and white film that shows Renoir painting in 1915, despite his afflictions. His hands look like stumps of old trees — you can barely see his fingers because they are so curled in on themselves. Fabric is tied across Renoir's palms, to protect his skin.The dream:
In the newsreel footage, he clamps a paintbrush between the thumb and fist of his right hand. Renoir leans into the canvas as he paints. He talks while he works. He's lively, and his eyes are piercing.
I am visiting a village in the Himalayas. At dusk, a boy who makes baskets to sell in his family's market stall is standing precariously on top of a pile of boxes, working on a basket. He is up there because it allows him a few more minutes of good light for his work.
As I walk through the crowd with friends, a see a large man wearing a distinctive green vest quickly subdue an acquaintance and take him away. I have seen this happen before. These people do not return. We have all seen it before, and the friend that I am with continues talking about the injustice that temporary workers at our company receive no benefits and we hire too many of them.
Comment: The dream curator is in his fifties, old enough that an increasing number of friends and acquaintances are suffering from illnesses ranging from the inconvenient to the terminal. Although we wish it wasn't so, these seem to strike at random. My parents and mentors are uniformly compromised in their abilities. I am inspired by Susan Stamberg's description of Renoir, and by my dream image of a Himalayan boy calmly doing what it takes to work a little longer. With apologies to Dylan Thomas (Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night), I will not go screaming into that good night, but surely work amid the dying light.
No comments:
Post a Comment