There it is, smack-dab in the centre, all tentacles of fire. It seems to radiate light. Like most other objects in the painting, its leaves are moving, curling their fists against the soaring winds. Even the lowest-lying surface of the foreground (the field, a thick, creamy carpet) is buffeted by the ever-present wind. Their very existence in this setting is an exhilerating struggle.
This motion celebrates the Copernican universe; we spin and cling to the Earth. But wait. Is the tree reacting to the wind or creating it? The child-mind has painted the sky to soar and radiate from the tree itself. Who's got the time or patience to paint the sky first? BAM! CRASH! The tree is a caption at the climax of a comic strip.
The paint in the foreground is thick. This yellow impasto is generous; it is a harvest, coming your way at the speed of this spinning planet.
Only the densely green stands of trees near the horizon defy the laws of wind and light with stubborn immobility. They draw the eye like pyramids, landmarks of dark possibilities, places that we're aware of even as we rejoice in this ultimate capture of sunlight. There will always be time for darkness, they seem to say. It's just a short walk.
Only the densely green stands of trees near the horizon defy the laws of wind and light with stubborn immobility. They draw the eye like pyramids, landmarks of dark possibilities, places that we're aware of even as we rejoice in this ultimate capture of sunlight. There will always be time for darkness, they seem to say. It's just a short walk.
Resting up against the tree's curving trunk is the only evidence of human society (also the closest to a rectilinear rendering) in the painting: a storage box. After all, a farmer's field is a place of work, and autumn means that there is work to be done. That box and the dark forests are the only solid objects on the exploding surface of the canvas; thus, the anchors of the painting, the ideas that keep it from spinning into the realm of fantasy, are toil and darkness. The essence of all these objects, in motion or stasis, is their steadfastness. Persistently immovable or tirelessly moving, they persevere.
The little orange tree in the middle-ground taps us on the shoulder; reminds us of wonders -- some light-filled and fiery, others risky and scary -- that await us if we just keep walking.
