in the Wallace Collection. This last was a haven of coolness, even of gloom, yet it was deserted, except for discreet knots of American ladies looking at snuff boxes in glass cases. To this day I can retrieve the sensation of walking over the hot gravel of the courtyard, my head hammering from the unforgiving glare, and the sensation of dignity which descended on me as I made my way up the stairs.Ahead of me were the great Bouchers, masterpieces neglected by most visitors but to me of the same order as the astonishing weather, which, if I turned my head, I could see through the dusty windows. In comparison with the pictures the sun suddenly looked tawdry, exhausted. I remembered the bodies of the young men lying under the trees, dreaming like children in their brief half-hour of liberty, and I turned back to the pictures, to the effortless immaculate soaring of the figures in their spectacular universe. The throbbing in my head died away, as did all bodily sensations, as I stood at the top of the stairs, drowning in blueness.
That is my memory of those summers: the glory of the weather and the refreshment of art. It seemed to me that most of life was mirrored in art, or perhaps that it was the great distinction of art to hold a mirror up to nature, to be an interpreter of phenomena, of situations. It will be seen that my understanding was fairly primitive. But it has remained a resource for me, to search for an analogue in painting for some emotion which I could either not conquer or bear to examine. Later on, of course, I was to find these analogues in music. I never, or rarely, appropriated them from literature, which I was able to study more objectively. Literature for me was a magnificent destiny for which I was not yet fully prepared. Like my parents I read a great deal, sinking into my bed at night with one of the books my father chose for me, but too often distracted by the flushed sky or the solemnity of the advancing night. The nights were short; the mornings dawned brilliant and very early. And then there was another marvellous day to fill.
Like everyone I remember only the summers. I know thatin 1976 the autumn was abrupt and wet, but was somehow of lesser importance than the summer it had succeeded. This propensity to remember the summers of our youth has begun to interest me. I think it is inspired by regret for something which has been lost along the way, since it seems to be a universal feeling. Elderly people remember golden days long past with identical expressions of joy and tenderness, or, more properly speaking, longing. As life proceeds, and the long journey is recognised for what it is, the look that is cast back unconsciously falsifies. That there were winters is a fact which is discarded, seemingly forgotten. And the longing for more summer, more life, intensifies as the dark days wear on, as if light and life have become interchangeable, as perhaps they are.
But the summers of which I speak were real enough, as were my long walks, which my mother accepted, as she had accepted the walks she used to take with my father. She no longer took those walks, preferring to move dreamily but contentedly round the flat and to wait for my father to come home and join her. The heart murmur which had been diagnosed when she was a child had resurfaced after years of giving no sign. She was not ill—in fact she had never seemed better—but she obeyed her doctor, rested, and saved her energies for our various homecomings, when she would greet us with joy and satisfaction. Occasionally she would stand still, as if listening to music, and then we knew that her heart had missed a beat, but she was so used to this that it did not seem to alarm her. If my father were present he would unconsciously hold his breath until she began to move freely again. Yet within seconds they would smile at each otherand go about their business, as if disorder had no place in their universe, and as if they therefore had no cause to
That is my memory of those summers: the glory of the weather and the refreshment of art. It seemed to me that most of life was mirrored in art, or perhaps that it was the great distinction of art to hold a mirror up to nature, to be an interpreter of phenomena, of situations. It will be seen that my understanding was fairly primitive. But it has remained a resource for me, to search for an analogue in painting for some emotion which I could either not conquer or bear to examine. Later on, of course, I was to find these analogues in music. I never, or rarely, appropriated them from literature, which I was able to study more objectively. Literature for me was a magnificent destiny for which I was not yet fully prepared. Like my parents I read a great deal, sinking into my bed at night with one of the books my father chose for me, but too often distracted by the flushed sky or the solemnity of the advancing night. The nights were short; the mornings dawned brilliant and very early. And then there was another marvellous day to fill.
Like everyone I remember only the summers. I know thatin 1976 the autumn was abrupt and wet, but was somehow of lesser importance than the summer it had succeeded. This propensity to remember the summers of our youth has begun to interest me. I think it is inspired by regret for something which has been lost along the way, since it seems to be a universal feeling. Elderly people remember golden days long past with identical expressions of joy and tenderness, or, more properly speaking, longing. As life proceeds, and the long journey is recognised for what it is, the look that is cast back unconsciously falsifies. That there were winters is a fact which is discarded, seemingly forgotten. And the longing for more summer, more life, intensifies as the dark days wear on, as if light and life have become interchangeable, as perhaps they are.
But the summers of which I speak were real enough, as were my long walks, which my mother accepted, as she had accepted the walks she used to take with my father. She no longer took those walks, preferring to move dreamily but contentedly round the flat and to wait for my father to come home and join her. The heart murmur which had been diagnosed when she was a child had resurfaced after years of giving no sign. She was not ill—in fact she had never seemed better—but she obeyed her doctor, rested, and saved her energies for our various homecomings, when she would greet us with joy and satisfaction. Occasionally she would stand still, as if listening to music, and then we knew that her heart had missed a beat, but she was so used to this that it did not seem to alarm her. If my father were present he would unconsciously hold his breath until she began to move freely again. Yet within seconds they would smile at each otherand go about their business, as if disorder had no place in their universe, and as if they therefore had no cause to
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