Andrew Graham Dixon (33:18)
Well, I think this is very interesting. I suppose I should preface it by explaining what I think those pictures are. So if you look at, say, two of. Two of the famous ones, the milkmaid, you see a woman pouring milk in an interior. She's wearing a vivid, vivid blue costume that seems to me to evoke religious art, you know, Catholic art, images of the Virgin Mary. That blue is so profound. And then you see, next to that, you see a painting, a woman with a balance, holding up a balance, a set of scales, in front of a painting of the Last Judgment. The women are exactly the same scale in the rooms they occupy. They're doing something deeply analogous to what each of the other is doing. One is pouring milk, measuring out milk into a bowl of bread. She's making bread pudding, a kind of soft meal traditionally served serve to the poor and the indigent and children. The other woman is, I think, by implication, weighing her own soul. So these two pictures, they're utterly beautiful. They are entrancing, they hold your gaze. They don't have that nudge nudge, wink, wink. Quality. That many Dutch paintings that we can fit into the category of genre painting, as we call it, they don't have that quality and yet they look like genre paintings at first sight, but they're not. There's something else going on. What are they actually of? Well, the milkmaid, she represents the active Christian life, what a person should do. She's making food for the poor and she's going to go and distribute it. That's active Christianity. The lady with the balance represents contemplative Christianity, as St. Augustine would put it. The Vita activa and the Vita contemplativa, they are a pair. She is weighing her own conscience. So you have to think about your actions, you have to weigh your actions up and decide, did I behave as Christ would have behaved today? Have I done the right thing? And then in the day, you have to do the right thing. So this is how the pictures work. I can just give that one example. And because they've never been understood, they've been seen as if they were genre paintings. Paintings. The reason Vermeer, I should add, the reason Vermeer did not paint straightforward religious paintings. The reason he didn't paint, for example, Martha and Mary, the active and the spiritual, in terms of traditional Catholic iconography, is because these remonstrance, these collegians, they come out of Calvinism. They don't want paintings of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. That's idolatry. They don't want it. They're very happy to have pictures that make them think of the biblical lessons, but they don't want paintings that are idolatrous, that show the saints and so on, because they still got Calvinism at their core. So that's why the pictures do this trick. They look like genre paintings, but they're not. And that's why it's been so difficult for people to understand them for so long, because the context, the collegiate and romance context, was lost. Once you know the context, you can then deduce the meaning. But I think that the reason to come back to your question in a rather long winded way, the reason why the painting survived, is precisely because they are so entrancing, they are so unlike other Dutch genre paintings that people have always looked at them and thought, wow. And they've looked at them and looked at them and looked at them and puzzled over them and thought about them and haven't been able to just, oh, oh, no, Grandpa wouldn't have wanted us to keep that. We'll let that one go. That can go to the secondhand dealer. No one's done that. That's the amazing thing, that these pictures. And you have to remember that in 1730-1740-1780-1810, all of these paintings are being bought and sold, never by Vermeer. They're never given by the dealer to Vermeer or by the auctioneer to Vermeer. This painting is being sold as a Franz van Meeris. That painting's been sold as a Herattal. The woman reading a letter at an open window in Dresden. One of Vermeer's most beautiful pictures of all, that's being sold as a Rembrandt. You know, what's amazing is that they survive enough. You know, nearly all of them survive. So that Theophile Gautier, coming along in the 1850s and 60s, he could. You can look at these scattered bones, you can look at that foot bone and that rib cage bone and that femur, and you can put it together and say, oh, look, I found Vermeer. And that's because the paintings had it within themselves to survive, because they just are so great, and they are great because they're. There's a philosophical question of what makes art great. I think one of the things that makes it great is authenticity, authenticity of fear, feeling. If something's really felt, we know it. Which is actually something a famous collegiate said. One of my favorite collegiates said that when you know when it's been felt, when it's true, you know the truth. God's put that in us to know the truth. And I think, you know, you can. You can tell when you look at Vermeer's pictures that there's such an intensity behind them. The idea that the collegians had this wonderfully rational idea of what heaven on earth would look like, whereas everyone else said, oh, no, God's going to come down. Christ's going to come down and strike everyone with lightning and separate the good from the bad, and all the bad will go to hell. And they'll, you know, the Galicians said, no, no, it's not going to be like that at all. Everyone's going to be saved. We're all going to be enlightened. Everyone's going to become a better person. And so, you know, when you try to imagine the new millennium, the new Jerusalem, you don't need to imagine a heavenly city actually descending from Earth. Just imagine your own own hometown on a particularly beautiful day, with perhaps two women going to the market and some boats and the sun coming out just as the storm has passed. And the water shimmering, actually, that's what heaven on earth's gonna look like. And I think the message of that painting to me is so moving because it, you know, really, that's all anybody wants.