The Umbrellas

for some reason, tonight I'd like to go through my thoughts on a painting, a long-time personal favorite of mine. I'm not sure if people do know it's my favorite, but I suppose it's no immediate need of theirs. On the other hand, I'm also not particularly sure if the peole near and dear to me know of this soft spot of mine, and its painterly nature. But ah well.



Honestly, I'm not really sure what draws me to this painting, although it's always struck me as a vignette waiting to happen. Albeit the dark, rainy-day colors, It's always felt so alive for me. A busy city sidewalk, somewhere in picturesque France, on a perfect day for all the polite and well-to-do folk to meet along the way. Look at the man to the furthest left, peeking under his umbrella and his brand-new hat, dressed in the fashion of the times. He reads to me as someone single, still unmarried, perhaps around his late twenties, at the prime of his life. Perhaps he was hurrying off to the opening of some art exhibition, but still found the time to look at the faces in the crowds and figure out what kind of lives they led, or what kind of people they were. It seems a young mother, with her six-year-old daughter in tow, has caught his eye. What did he think of her? Did he wonder if she was married, and how her husband cared for her? Or, if he thought otherwise, did he wonder how on earth could a lady her age manage to raise her little girl and still have her white, soft-looking hands? He must have tohught how soft her hands would actuallt feel if he could take them in his. But still there was work to be done and exhibits to open, so perhaps he tucked the tought of the beautiful mother away in a pocket of his mind as he sped off to the exhibit, half worrying if the auctioneer would notice a few last-minute touch-ups on the main pieces.

The young mother is in a hurry as well. She is too much preoccupied to go exchanging looks with handsome strangers on the street. She has great responsibilities to take care of, like the little girl holding on to her gray suede-gloved hand. Perhaps she feels that being a mother is nothing to be scoffed at; her job of bringing up and caring for good people and keeping the hearth and home a welcome sanctuary holds the most responsibility and the most weight in the world. Perhaps she secretly wonders how well has she done so far in her ten-year marriage... not, not just a marriage, a family. she hurries along her little girl, hoping for fresh fish and crisp vegetables in the marketplace.

The little girl looks on, right out of the painting, straight at the viewer, at me. what could she be thinking? for me, she'd be the narrator of this pigment and linseed oil story. See how her little eyes smile; perhaps she'd be asking, "It's all rather amusing, isn't it? Don't tell a soul; I know a secret. It's somewhere here in this painting, but I can't tell you. You have to find if for yourself. But it's there. Don't worry, it's there."

But the character I am most drawn to is the the lady in the foreground, with a basket, walking of to who knows where. See how she quietly smiles. The idea that she'd be off to market would be very likely, considering how her basket's still empty. but honestly, she strikes me as someone who'd just come back from the market. Look at her face. She's etherealy contented, like she's seen or found something at the marketplace and come away much more richer than she would have with a basketful of grocery. She steps out quite confidently into the weather, keeping a precious secret deep within her. Her future, I would suppose. Perhaps she knows that somewhere, her lover will come back to her from a long, lonely journey out to sea, out to work. She is not sure when, or how, but she is sure of it. Very, very soon. she feels it deep in her womb.

On the other hand, I can't quite put my finger on what the weather is in the picture. the obvious answer would have to be sunny, considering how the basket-lady steps out sans shading, unwet. But on the other hand, what if it had actually been raining? Would that mean then that she happily walked through the rain, with nary a care in the world, and miraculously managed to not get herself wet? Then that would make her... certainly something else, wouldn't it? Personally, I prefer this possibility, but well, you know me.

I have this painting on an umbrella, and that makes that umbrella my favorite. I bought it at SM Megamall,, opting this design over a number of Baroque ladies and Spanish Infantas and a Degas couple twirling on the dance floor.The umbrellas pictures the mother-and-child in multiples on each face of the umbrella, but I know the basket-lady anywhere. Her elbow and basket corner peeking through the cut of the umbrella are no let to me.

So far, James is the only person who knows why I love my unbrella, and well now so do you. Perhaps you know why I love this painting, and perhaps you don't. But ah, well, It's certainly something to smile about.

Good night, everyone.