Category Archives: Art

Edgar Degas’s The Dance Class (1874)

The writer Edmond de Goncourt wrote in his jour­nal in 1873: “Yes­ter­day I spent the after­noon in the stu­dio of a painter named Degas. Out of all the sub­jects in mod­ern life he has cho­sen wash­er­women and bal­let dancers”. That same year Edgar Degas (1834–1917) would join forces with Mon­et, Renoir, and Cézanne, to exhib­it paint­ings under the ban­ner of Impres­sion­ism and would go on to achieve fame as one of the world’s great artists and ren­der­ers of move­ment. Half of his prodi­gious out­put (of 1200 or so works) depict­ed dancers and the world they inhab­it­ed, and he claimed the bal­let for mod­ern art as Cézanne claimed the land­scape and Mon­et the haystacks and lilies.

In the 1870s Edgar Degas had become fas­ci­nat­ed with bal­let dancers, pay­ing fre­quent vis­its to the mag­nif­i­cent Palais Gar­nier, home of the Paris Opéra and its Bal­let. He haunt­ed the wings and stalked the class­es where the Opèra’s bal­let mas­ter, Jules Per­rot, trained groups of young girls. He would be con­stant­ly sketch­ing his obser­va­tions and accu­mu­lat­ing ideas for paint­ings to ren­der lat­er in his stu­dio. Degas’s pic­tures of bal­leri­nas per­form­ing onstage con­vey exquis­ite­ly the bal­ance, grace and radi­ance of the dancers, whilst at oth­er times, Degas stripped away the poet­ry and illu­sion to show the hard work behind the scenes: the hang­ing around, the stretch­ing at the bar, the rub­bing of sore mus­cles, the tying of shoes.

It is at this point that I should sig­nal the need to sep­a­rate art from real­i­ty, for the real­i­ty of the bal­let was that it had a sor­did under­bel­ly. The dancers were usu­al­ly young, poor, vul­ner­a­ble and ripe for exploita­tion by abon­nés, the name for wealthy male sub­scrip­tion hold­ers who often lurked in the foy­ers, and there was more than a hint of pros­ti­tu­tion (often with their moth­ers in col­lu­sion, des­per­ate I sup­pose to push their daugh­ters up the lad­der). The glam­our was only on the sur­face.

To defend Degas from the obvi­ous fleet­ing thought, how­ev­er (although his char­ac­ter may be called into ques­tion for var­i­ous oth­er rea­sons such as mis­an­thropy and anti-semi­tism), it is under­stood that his rela­tion­ship to the dancers was pater­nal and pro­fes­sion­al rather than preda­to­ry.

Of the sev­er­al hun­dred Degas paint­ings to choose from, here’s one that fea­tures the old Per­rot school­ing his bal­leri­nas in The Dance Class (1874), with the dancers in var­i­ous stages of prepa­ra­tion. The girl on the left appears to be look­ing at her mobile phone!

The Dance Class
The Dance Class

Grant Wood’s American Gothic (1930)

Grant Wood (1891–1942) was an Amer­i­can painter best known for his paint­ings depict­ing the rur­al Amer­i­can Mid­west, par­tic­u­lar­ly Amer­i­can Goth­ic (1930), which has become an icon­ic exam­ple of 20th cen­tu­ry Amer­i­can art. Wood was born in rur­al Iowa and received his art train­ing at the Art Insti­tute of Chica­go before mak­ing sev­er­al trips to Europe to study Impres­sion­ism and post-Impres­sion­ism. He always returned to Iowa, how­ev­er, and had a stu­dio at the house he shared with his moth­er in Cedar Rapids. He was a major pro­po­nent of the art move­ment known as Amer­i­can Region­al­ism which arose in the 1930s as a response to the Great Depres­sion, and incor­po­rat­ed paint­ings, murals, lith­o­graphs, and illus­tra­tions depict­ing real­is­tic scenes of rur­al and small-town Amer­i­ca.

It was while dri­ving around the town of Eldon, Iowa, look­ing for inspi­ra­tion, that Wood spot­ted the Dib­ble House, a quaint small white frame house and con­sid­ered it just right for his pur­pos­es. So why “Amer­i­can Goth­ic”? Well, the house is built in the so-called Car­pen­ter Goth­ic style, an archi­tec­tur­al style bor­row­ing ideas from Goth­ic archi­tec­ture but ren­der­ing it in wood. Here’s the Dib­ble House below, with its arched Goth­ic style win­dow clear­ly shown.

The Dib­ble House

Wood want­ed to add fig­ures of peo­ple he fan­cied should live in that house: a farmer and his daugh­ter. He chose for his mod­els his sis­ter Nan Wood Gra­ham and their den­tist Dr Byron McK­ee­by. The woman is dressed in a colo­nial print apron while the man is adorned in over­alls cov­ered by a suit jack­et and car­ries a pitch­fork. It’s an odd blend, and some took it ini­tial­ly as a mock­ery of “the kind of peo­ple” who might live in such a house, but this was far from the intent of the artist who wished to sim­ply cre­ate an authen­tic depic­tion of real peo­ple in his home state.

Wood’s mod­els: his sis­ter and den­tist

Amer­i­can Goth­ic became one of the most famil­iar images of Amer­i­can art and has been wide­ly par­o­died in Amer­i­can pop­u­lar cul­ture. Exu­ber­ant it ain’t, but it some­how cap­tures a stead­fast spir­it befit­ting of the con­text in which it was paint­ed.


Grant Wood

Diego Velázquez’s Las Meninas (1656)

The Span­ish Gold­en Age of flour­ish­ing arts and lit­er­a­ture in Spain coin­cid­ed with the Span­ish Empire’s polit­i­cal and mil­i­tary dom­i­nance in the 16th and 17th cen­turies, rough­ly dur­ing the reigns of the Hab­s­burg mon­archs Charles V, and the Philips II, III and IV of Spain. In lit­er­a­ture, Cer­vantes was writ­ing Don Quixote de la Man­cha (1605) and Lope de Vega was knock­ing out about 500 plays and 3000 son­nets between the 1580s and 1630s. In art, El Gre­co, Fran­cis­co de Zur­barán and Bar­tolomé Muril­lo flour­ished, as well as the lead­ing artist of them all, Diego Velázquez, who worked under the patron­age of King Philip IV between the 1620s and 1650s.

Velázquez’s ear­li­est works are bode­gones, kitchen or pantry scenes with promi­nent still-lifes and domes­tic activ­i­ty such as his Woman Fry­ing Eggs (1618) which I remem­ber being tak­en with many years ago dur­ing a vis­it to the Nation­al Gallery of Scot­land in Edin­burgh. How­ev­er, it was when he took to por­trai­ture that he gained the atten­tion of King Philip and was invit­ed to become court painter. Diego was able to thrive under Philip’s wing for the rest of his life. He pro­vid­ed por­traits for the court (he paint­ed Philip him­self over thir­ty times) and for lumi­nar­ies of the time such as Pope Inno­cent X, but was also giv­en the free­dom to paint less promi­nent per­son­al­i­ties such as Juan de Pare­ja, a for­mer slave and fel­low painter in his work­shop.

His mag­num opus, how­ev­er, was Las Meni­nas (The Ladies-in-wait­ing or Maids of Hon­our). Paint­ed in 1656 and now resid­ing in the Museo del Pra­do in Madrid, Las Meni­nas depicts the 5 year old Infan­ta Mar­garet There­sa sur­round­ed by her entourage of maids of hon­our, chap­er­one, body­guard, two dwarfs and a dog. Just behind them, Velázquez por­trays him­self work­ing at a large can­vas and look­ing out­wards towards the view­er. In the back­ground there is a mir­ror that reflects the upper bod­ies of the king and queen them­selves. Giv­en the expec­ta­tion that a court paint­ing would be a for­mal affair, Las Meni­nas’ com­plex and enig­mat­ic com­po­si­tion sur­pris­es us and cre­ates an uncer­tain rela­tion­ship between us and the fig­ures depict­ed. Because of its unusu­al nature, Las Meni­nas has been one of the most wide­ly analysed works in West­ern paint­ing, and it’s one of “the greats” that I hope to vis­it one day.

Diego Velázquez, detail from Las Meni­nas

Giotto’s Scrovegni Chapel Frescoes (c.1305)

Before Raphael was Michelan­ge­lo, and before Michelan­ge­lo was Leonar­do, and before Leonar­do was Bot­ti­cel­li, and before Bot­ti­cel­li was Giot­to. Giot­to di Bon­done (c. 1267 – 1337) was a painter and archi­tect from Flo­rence dur­ing the Late Mid­dle Ages, work­ing before the great flour­ish­ing in the arts known as the Renais­sance. The 16th cen­tu­ry art his­to­ri­an, Gior­gio Vasari (inci­den­tal­ly, the first man to use the term Renais­sance in print), in his Lives of the Painters, cred­its Giot­to with break­ing tan­gi­bly away from the preva­lent Byzan­tine style and ini­ti­at­ing “the great art of paint­ing as we know it today, intro­duc­ing the tech­nique of draw­ing accu­rate­ly from life”.

His two great mas­ter­works were the design of the cam­panile at Flo­rence Cathe­dral, and the dec­o­ra­tion of the Scroveg­ni Chapel in Pad­ua. A third may well be the famous fres­coes in the Upper Basil­i­ca of Saint Fran­cis in Assisi, though this is dis­put­ed: sad­ly, giv­en the peri­od, many fea­tures of his life are hard to sub­stan­ti­ate.

Vasari tells some sto­ries about Giot­to that sound decid­ed­ly fan­ci­ful. Accord­ing to him, Giot­to was a shep­herd boy, dis­cov­ered by the great Flo­ren­tine painter Cimabue draw­ing pic­tures of his sheep on a rock. They were so life­like that Cimabue approached Giot­to and asked if he could take him on as an appren­tice. Anoth­er sto­ry recounts how Giot­to drew a life­like fly onto one of his master’s paint­ings and laughed when Cimabue tried sev­er­al times to brush the fly off. Yet anoth­er tells how the Pope request­ed to see an exam­ple of his artis­tic skill and Giot­to sim­ply sent him a per­fect cir­cle he had drawn in free­hand.

Fan­ci­ful sto­ries aside, there’s no doubt­ing the achieve­ment of the Scroveg­ni Chapel fres­coes. The sub­ject mat­ter is not unusu­al for church dec­o­ra­tion in medieval Italy, being cen­tred on the lives of the Vir­gin Mary and Christ, but the style for the day was sen­sa­tion­al: solid­ly three-dimen­sion­al, with faces and ges­tures based on close obser­va­tion, and the char­ac­ters clothed in gar­ments that hang nat­u­ral­ly and have form and weight. The expan­sive use of ultra­ma­rine blue pig­ment is remark­ably effec­tive: when you look at the chapel as a whole, it seems awash with blue (albeit fad­ed with time, sad­ly).

I’ll fin­ish with anoth­er sto­ry that’s prob­a­bly apoc­ryphal (but who knows?). The great poet Dante vis­it­ed Giot­to while he was paint­ing the Scroveg­ni Chapel and, see­ing the artist’s chil­dren flit­ting around, asked (rude­ly) how a man who paint­ed such beau­ti­ful pic­tures could have such plain chil­dren. Giot­to, who, accord­ing to Vasari was always a wit, replied, “I make my pic­tures by day, and my babies by night”.

Giotto 1
Giotto 2
Giotto 3
Giotto 4

Francisco Queirolo’s Escape From Deception (1754)

In the his­toric cen­tre of Naples lies the San­severo Chapel, a for­mer church con­vert­ed into a fam­i­ly bur­ial chapel by the noble di San­gro fam­i­ly in 1613. In the 1750s, Rai­mon­do di San­gro, the Prince of San­severo, com­mit­ted the last years of his life to dec­o­rat­ing the chapel with great works of art. He had already had a rich life of enquiry and exper­i­men­ta­tion in the sci­ences and was well-known for his inven­tions as well as a deep involve­ment with alche­my and Freema­son­ry. How­ev­er, since Rai­mon­do had had run-ins with the Inqui­si­tion and had elect­ed to destroy his sci­en­tif­ic archive before his death, it is his artis­tic lega­cy that remains.

In par­tic­u­lar, he com­mis­sioned three sculp­tors to pro­duce a mar­ble sculp­ture each, name­ly Anto­nio Corradini’s Veiled Truth, Guiseppe Sanmartino’s Veiled Christ, and Francesco Queirolo’s Escape from Decep­tion. By good judge­ment or good luck – or, some said, by the mys­te­ri­ous pow­ers of the occult – Raimondo’s choice result­ed in all three sculp­tures turn­ing out to be amaz­ing mas­ter­pieces of exquis­ite skill.

Let’s look at just one of them. The Release from Decep­tion by Genoese sculp­tor Francesco Queiro­lo shows a man’s emer­gence from a fisherman’s net, guid­ed by an angel hov­er­ing above a globe as he untan­gles the man from the net. Every piece of this incred­i­ble sculp­ture is carved out of mar­ble, includ­ing the care­ful­ly craft­ed knots in the net draped around the fig­ure of the fish­er­man. The scene depict­ed is both bib­li­cal and alle­gor­i­cal, the net sym­bol­is­ing sin, world­li­ness or wrong-think­ing, and the angel help­ing the man to see the error of his ways.

The idea of one man, with his mal­lets and chis­els and rasps and rif­flers, strug­gling with one block of mar­ble to “free the form trapped inside the block”, as Michae­lan­ge­lo used to describe it, is a com­pelling one. I myself have only fleet­ing­ly passed through Naples, but if I ever return, I shall be seek­ing out the San­severo Chapel; I’d like to see this “in the flesh”, so to speak!

Théophile Steinlen’s Le Chat Noir Poster Art (1896)

Le Chat Noir (you prob­a­bly don’t need that trans­lat­ing!) was a 19th cen­tu­ry night­club in the bohemi­an dis­trict of Mont­martre in Paris. It opened in 1881 at 84 Boule­vard de Roche­chouart by the impre­sario Rodolphe Salis, and closed, after a six­teen year glo­ry peri­od, in 1897, not long after Salis’ death. It is thought to be the first mod­ern cabaret: a night­club where the patrons sat at tables and drank alco­holic bev­er­ages whilst being enter­tained by a vari­ety show on stage and a mas­ter of cer­e­monies.

Le Chat Noir soon became pop­u­lar with poets, singers and musi­cians, since it offered an ide­al venue and oppor­tu­ni­ty to prac­tice their acts in front of fel­low per­form­ers and guests. Famous men and women of an artis­tic bent began to patro­n­ise the club, includ­ing poet Paul Ver­laine, can-can dancer Jane Avril, com­posers Claude Debussy and Erik Satie, artists Paul Signac and Hen­ri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and many oth­ers from the move­ments of sym­bol­ism and the avant garde.

The cabaret also pub­lished a week­ly mag­a­zine (also called Le Chat Noir), fea­tur­ing lit­er­ary writ­ings, poet­ry, polit­i­cal satire, and news from the cabaret and the local art scene. The icon­ic poster art, which most peo­ple will recog­nise (and a few may even have it in mag­net form on their fridge) was by Swiss Art Nou­veau artist and print­mak­er, Théophile Steinlen.

Yep, my fridge!

Steinlen was in his ear­ly twen­ties and still devel­op­ing his skills as a painter when he was encour­aged by fel­low Swiss artist François Bocion to move to the artis­tic com­mu­ni­ty of Mont­martre. Once there, Steinlen was intro­duced to the crowd at Le Chat Noir, which led to com­mis­sions to do poster art for them and oth­er com­mer­cial enter­pris­es. Here’s a selec­tion of his poster art, start­ing with the famous La Tournée du Chat Noir (pro­duced for when Salis took his cabaret show on tour). All Stein­len’s posters have an endur­ing appeal, and I’d bet that all of them are famil­iar to you.

Théophile Steinlen

 

Sir Henry Raeburn’s The Skating Minister (1790)

Sev­er­al times, in a for­mer job role, I had occa­sion to trav­el by train to Edinburgh’s Waver­ley Sta­tion and from thence to our site in Liv­ingston, where I would do my thing, stay overnight, and make the return jour­ney home the next day. Although usu­al­ly the booked train tick­ets allowed lit­tle room for extracur­ric­u­lar activ­i­ties, there was one occa­sion on which I man­aged to engi­neer a cou­ple of spare hours to vis­it Edinburgh’s Nation­al Gallery. It’s a five-minute walk from Waver­ley Sta­tion, past the Wal­ter Scott mon­u­ment and along Princes Street Gar­dens, and it is well worth the effort.

One of the more unusu­al of its col­lec­tion is Hen­ry Raeburn’s The Skat­ing Min­is­ter. Paint­ed around 1790, it depicts the Rev­erend Robert Walk­er, min­is­ter at Edinburgh’s Canon­gate Kirk, skat­ing on Dud­dingston Loch. It was prac­ti­cal­ly unknown until 1949 (when it was acquired), but has since become some­thing of an icon of Scot­tish cul­ture, paint­ed as it was dur­ing the Scot­tish Enlight­en­ment. It is today rare for Dud­dingston Loch to be suf­fi­cient­ly frozen for skat­ing, but in the Lit­tle Ice Age that encom­passed the 18th cen­tu­ry, the loch was the favourite meet­ing place of the Edin­burgh Skat­ing Club, of whom Robert Walk­er was a promi­nent mem­ber.

Sir Hen­ry Rae­burn was Edinburgh’s own, too. Born in Stock­bridge, a for­mer vil­lage now part of Edin­burgh, he was respon­si­ble for some thou­sand por­traits of Scotland’s great and good. He was dis­in­clined to leave his native land and, as a result, his renown in Scot­land is not matched in Eng­land where the names of Joshua Reynolds and Thomas Gains­bor­ough dom­i­nate the por­trai­ture of the peri­od. But in the Scot­tish Nation­al Gallery, he is far from for­got­ten, and his Skat­ing Min­is­ter will remain a firm favourite there for years to come.

 

Artemisia Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes (1620)

The first mem­ber of the artis­tic Gen­tileschi fam­i­ly that I became aware of was the Ital­ian Baroque artist, Orazio Gen­tileschi, whose Rest on the Flight to Egypt I came across a few years back in Vienna’s mag­nif­i­cent Kun­sthis­torisches Muse­um. How­ev­er, as acclaimed as Orazio was, it is his daugh­ter, Artemisia, whose name has come down to us today bear­ing the most crit­i­cal acclaim, and not just because she is cham­pi­oned as a woman who thrived in a man’s world, but also because she was lit­er­al­ly a bril­liant and accom­plished world-class artist.

Artemisia flour­ished in the first half of the 17th cen­tu­ry, work­ing in her father’s work­shop in Rome but also lat­er work­ing in Flo­rence, Venice, Naples and even in Lon­don where both she and her father had a spell work­ing as court painters for Charles I not long before the out­break of the Eng­lish Civ­il War. She spe­cial­ized in paint­ing nat­u­ral­is­tic pic­tures of strong and suf­fer­ing women from myth, alle­go­ry, and the Bible — Susan­na and the Elders, Judith Slay­ing Holofernes, Delilah, Salome, Bathshe­ba, Lucre­tia, Cleopa­tra, Jael, Mary Mag­da­lene…

Her works are con­vinc­ing depic­tions of the female fig­ure, any­where between nude and ful­ly clothed, and she clear­ly had a won­der­ful tal­ent for han­dling colour and build­ing depth. Her Judith Slay­ing Holofernes, paint­ed between 1614 and 1620, is a dra­mat­ic piece of art the­atre. It depicts the scene of Judith behead­ing Holofernes, an episode tak­en from the apoc­ryphal Book of Judith in the Old Tes­ta­ment, in which the Assyr­i­an gen­er­al Holofernes is assas­si­nat­ed by the Israelite hero­ine Judith. The paint­ing shows the moment when Judith, helped by her maid­ser­vant, beheads the gen­er­al after he has fall­en asleep drunk. Artemisia was just sev­en­teen when she paint­ed this, so pre­co­cious was her tal­ent.

That she was a woman paint­ing in the sev­en­teenth cen­tu­ry is wor­thy of note, of course (how much more art would exist today had tal­ent­ed female artists, the ones that were less con­nect­ed or gut­sy than Artemisia, been allowed to express them­selves?). But pure­ly on her work alone she was one of the most pro­gres­sive and expres­sive painters of her gen­er­a­tion, and that was a gen­er­a­tion that was already rich in artists inspired and flour­ish­ing in the foot­steps of Car­avag­gio. As it hap­pens, she is due to be com­mem­o­rat­ed this spring in a ret­ro­spec­tive exhi­bi­tion at London’s Nation­al Gallery. I’ll be there, hope­ful­ly!

Gustave Caillebotte’s The Floor Scrapers (1875)

Many lead­ing artists in mid-19th cen­tu­ry France liked to test their artis­tic skills by depict­ing farm work­ers and peas­ants at toil in the coun­try­side – Courbet’s The Stone Break­ers (1850) and Millet’s The Glean­ers (1857), for exam­ple.

As the cen­tu­ry wore on, some artists began to explore the con­cept of men and women at work in urban set­tings – Manet’s The Road-Menders in the Rue de Berne (1878) springs to mind, as does Women Iron­ing (1884) by Degas. Of this genre, a per­son­al favourite of mine comes from Gus­tave Caille­botte and is called The Floor Scrap­ers (Les Rabo­teurs de Par­quet).

It depicts three top­less men work­ing on hands and knees, scrap­ing away at a par­quet floor in a Parisian apart­ment (thought to be Caille­bot­te’s own stu­dio). The com­po­si­tion is doc­u­men­tary-style, focus­ing on the actions and tech­niques of the floor-scrap­ers. Day­light enters the room from a win­dow on the far wall and gloss­es the smooth floor­boards with a white sheen. There are sev­er­al floor-scrap­ing tools as well as an opened bot­tle of (pre­sum­ably cheap) wine. The diag­o­nal align­ment of the floor­boards is off­set by the rec­tan­gu­lar pan­els on the far wall and by the curlicue motif of the iron grill on the win­dow and the wood shav­ings that lit­ter the floor. It is a mas­ter­piece of real­ist paint­ing.

His piece was per­fect­ly in keep­ing with aca­d­e­m­ic tra­di­tions, in terms of its per­spec­tive and the mod­el­ling and posi­tion­ing of the nude tor­sos of the work­ers. How­ev­er, despite this, the paint­ing was reject­ed at the 1875 Salon because of its ‘vul­gar’ real­ism. There’s no account­ing for taste. So Caille­botte threw his lot in with the Impres­sion­ists and exhib­it­ed it at the Impres­sion­ist Exhi­bi­tion of 1876.

These days, The Floor Scrap­ers is held in the Musée d’Or­say, although when I vis­it­ed, a few years ago, I was dis­ap­point­ed to find it was not on dis­play – you can’t win ‘em all (and I’ll just have to vis­it again when next in Paris)!

Katsushika Hokusai’s Ejiri In Suruga Province (c.1830)

The Edo peri­od in Japan was a 250 year peri­od of sta­bil­i­ty, last­ing between 1603 and 1868, when the coun­try was under the rule of the Toku­gawa shogu­nate. It was a rich time for the devel­op­ment of Japan­ese cul­ture and saw the devel­op­ment of Japan­ese cul­tur­al themes recog­nis­able today like kabu­ki the­atre, Geisha girls, sumo wrestling and ukiyo‑e wood­block print art.

Ukiyo‑e trans­lates as “pic­tures of the float­ing world” and referred to the hedo­nis­tic lifestyle preva­lent in the plea­sure dis­tricts of Edo (mod­ern-day Tokyo). Thus, we see a vari­ety of erot­ic themes in this art, but also plen­ty of land­scapes, flo­ra and fau­na, and scenes from his­to­ry and folk tales. A famous pro­po­nent of ukiyo‑e was Kat­sushi­ka Hoku­sai (1760–1849), best known for his wood­block print series Thir­ty-six Views of Mount Fuji which includes the inter­na­tion­al­ly icon­ic print, The Great Wave off Kana­gawa.

Hoku­sai cre­at­ed the Thir­ty-Six Views both as a response to a domes­tic trav­el boom and as part of a per­son­al obses­sion with Mount Fuji. The series depicts Mount Fuji from dif­fer­ent loca­tions and in var­i­ous sea­sons and weath­er con­di­tions. It was this series, and specif­i­cal­ly The Great Wave print, that secured Hokusai’s fame both in Japan and over­seas. They are won­der­ful­ly sim­ple yet evoca­tive pieces.

The series was pro­duced from around 1830 to 1832, when Hoku­sai was in his sev­en­ties and at the height of his career. As well as The Great Wave, you may also recog­nise Rain­storm Beneath the Sum­mit and Fine Wind, Clear Morn­ing. My per­son­al favourite, how­ev­er, is Ejiri in Suru­ga Province: a sud­den gust of wind takes some trav­ellers by sur­prise, blow­ing away the hat of a man who tries in vain to catch it. Bits of paper whirl away from a woman’s back­pack and scat­ter into the air. The woman’s wind-tossed cloth cov­ers her face, and the tall tree in the fore­ground los­es its leaves. Oth­er trav­ellers face the wind, crouch­ing low to avoid it and cling­ing to their hats. Fuji, mean­while, stands white and unshak­en, affect­ed nei­ther by the wind nor the human dra­ma.

Ejiri in Suru­ga Province