In my introductory post I mentioned that the chosen background for Joyful Noises was reflective of my view of the physical realm. Allow me to explain.
At the macro level,
Woman With a Lute is a tense exercise in light and dark, vibrancy and constancy, exploration and domesticity. The setting (as evidenced by the table, mismatched chairs, comfortable sprawling of notes and clutter) is a home, probably the subject's. But there's a longing captured in the lute player's pose that is not entirely
at home in her setting; both the window and the map suggest a longing for some greater adventure.
When the painting's history and condition are considered, additional layers of compositional complexity arise.
Woman With a Lute is not a well-preserved Vermeer masterpiece, having been retouched at several points and darkened with age in a manner atypical of his work. The woman herself underwent a stylistic renaissance, her hair changing from simple and practical to a outrageous and stylish up-do and back again. The shadows have deepened and darkened the room, menacing in a way the artist never intended.
So what does all this have to do with a philosophy of the physical realm?
The Apostle Paul, in his first letter to the Corinthians, couches life in these terms:
For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. - 1 Corinthians 13:9-12 (KJV)
Life is the map and the subject's window view: an adventure waiting to begin, but often
just out of reach. Like the subject, we awake daily and gaze into all of its wondrous possibilities, preparing ourselves to participate, to create, to drink deep of the Creator's great story, to join in vibrant chorus in the streets. But that's often the end of it. Our whimsy becomes the song, rather than the catalyst that drives us to symphony; our room becomes the
fine rather than an
anacrusis, slowly fading to darkness rather than propelling us to light. Sure, we rearrange the furniture, restyle our hair and tune our lutes, but we too often settle by the window rather than walk out the door.
In a way, then,
Woman With a Lute is a daily reminder to "put away childish things" and strive toward perfection, that someday I may know fully, "even as also I am known", and in the interim, enjoy fully the adventure God has prepared for me from the action side of the window.
