|Pieter Bruegel the Elder: Hunters in the Snow|
Stepping outside the house into the garden, I found that snow had fallen in the night. It was like entering a new country, a kind of pristine Eden. What had been so plural and so various the day before was now so streamlined and so uniform. The edges of everything had been straightened. The drive, the path, the lawn, the pond, the patio were now one seamless, sparkling field of whiteness. The ridges on the garage roof, the uneven clods of earth in the raised vegetable bed, the cherry tree's crooked tracery of branches — all were obscured, levelled out, smoothed into snowy perfection.
And I thought how wonderful it would be if we could walk outside into the winter and find the uncomfortable bumps and rough contours of our own imperfect characters flattened and rubbed away, erased under a deep white blanket of nothingness, transformed by the clean, sweeping lines of snow, purified in Zen-like simplicity.
|Claude Monet: The Magpie|