During her last years, artist Joan Eardley (1921-1963) painted seascapes at Catterline, a fishing village on Scotland’s coast. I especially like her The Wave (1961), Seascape (Foam and Sky, 1962), and Summer Sea (1962). What intrigues are the recurring smudges of light and cloud—center or just off center, at or above the horizon. (In other paintings, her glimmers are recognizably moon, sun, blue sky, or sea-spray.)
Four examples give an idea of what I’m talking about (mindful here of the variable quality of digital reproductions):
My eye locks on the rush and scatter of waves, but I’m distracted by those lit clouds above.
I end up thinking about the smudges and glimmers, where the thinking is itself a distraction—in this case the distraction of leaving the painting too early. I stay awhile. From where I look, the clouds are luminous and I wonder, what kinds of reflections do they cast on the seascape below, or on me, out of sight?
My hesitation is less indecision than a sensibility, I think. It’s not quite the Coleridgean willing suspension of disbelief or a Keatsian negative capability (“when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reasons”).
This version of sensibility needs to be pushed further than that. It’s more like the matrix of conscious connections that would not have otherwise been made were it not for the distraction and an attentiveness to that distraction. Out-of-sight reflection at its best?
Let’s see if we agree and if we can push the point further.
Below are links to three brief performances. The clips show performers and music taking place on stages of sort, with instruments of sorts. I wager that you’ve not seen the clips before and that if you have seen something like them, you’ve never imagined them in this sequence.
I’ve chosen them because the individual pieces seem to reflect–and reflect on–one another, e.g,, Kyung Namchul’s fingers moving across the strings parallel the hands and feet of Denis Matvienko and Leonid Sarafanov moving across the floor parallel Lin Yi’s fan and body flicking together.
Please watch each in its entirety. (As above, I claim no copyright privilege over the below.)
While the performers are known in their own right, the sequence serves as one intertext: Sarafanov plucks floor and air, Kyung flicks the strings, Li dances the fan. Each is inscribed onto the music. Each illuminates the other, and each-together reflects back onto me, its out-of-sight viewer.
That sensitivity feels very much like a sensibility to me, while cognitively the resonance is very much like reflection. Refracted through the human prism, it is difficult to tell if what’s written is “live” or “love,” “hype” or “hope,” “could” or “would.”