Reflection on "The Girl with the Pearl Earring"
The last book I have read is “The girl with the Pearl Earring” by Tracy Chevalier. It is written in a narrative form revolving around the intricacies of Vermeer’s genius at its best.
Meeting Vermeer through this book was quite a fascinating experience. His solitary ways and forlorn clumsiness in real life speaks volumes of how crowded and passion-filled his brain must have been. The rush of passions, the hurried compassions, stolen moments of guilty love and meekness of human vulnerability seems to be his constant universe; all else was life in the passing. The depth of passion over looms his real life that consisted of maintaining a modest house and a large family. Each family member holds a different optique towards his paintings. To the mother, the man’s passion and soul are at the forefront as opposed to the wife’s who thinks Vermeer’s painting studio is a financially sunk boat. To the head maid and children, it is something the master does.
What really gripped me was the way in which the meek new maid’s passion and curiosity brings her closer to her master, closer than any blood relation of his. Their relationship builds right from the start with the intricate arrangement of vegetables. I thoroughly enjoyed reading how this timid yet determined girl found herself on the canvass of Vermeer and how the painting became a victim of worldly lust ending in the hallway of the debauch landlord.
The way the painting came about and how it travelled along with the pearls is proof enough that work of art is not limited to a privileged few; rather it belongs to timeless humanity.
Before I read the novel, I was aware of only a few painters and even fewer paintings. The few pieces of art that I knew of included the The persistence of Time, The Scream, The Starry Sky and Mona Lisa. I have often imagined Da Vinnci behind a canvass, smirking and cooking up a joke to share with a world, which is incompetent of acknowledging his genius (well Robert Langdon might have
Meeting Vermeer through this book was quite a fascinating experience. His solitary ways and forlorn clumsiness in real life speaks volumes of how crowded and passion-filled his brain must have been. The rush of passions, the hurried compassions, stolen moments of guilty love and meekness of human vulnerability seems to be his constant universe; all else was life in the passing. The depth of passion over looms his real life that consisted of maintaining a modest house and a large family. Each family member holds a different optique towards his paintings. To the mother, the man’s passion and soul are at the forefront as opposed to the wife’s who thinks Vermeer’s painting studio is a financially sunk boat. To the head maid and children, it is something the master does.
What really gripped me was the way in which the meek new maid’s passion and curiosity brings her closer to her master, closer than any blood relation of his. Their relationship builds right from the start with the intricate arrangement of vegetables. I thoroughly enjoyed reading how this timid yet determined girl found herself on the canvass of Vermeer and how the painting became a victim of worldly lust ending in the hallway of the debauch landlord.
The way the painting came about and how it travelled along with the pearls is proof enough that work of art is not limited to a privileged few; rather it belongs to timeless humanity.
Before I read the novel, I was aware of only a few painters and even fewer paintings. The few pieces of art that I knew of included the The persistence of Time, The Scream, The Starry Sky and Mona Lisa. I have often imagined Da Vinnci behind a canvass, smirking and cooking up a joke to share with a world, which is incompetent of acknowledging his genius (well Robert Langdon might have