Between the Lines / The art of the luminous

I don't know whether it's the serene bucolic setting or the beauty of the paintings, but I always feel drawn to the lovely Florence Griswold Museum in Old Lyme. Charlene and I went there last week to see the latest exhibit of landscape paintings.

I can't claim to be very sophisticated about art, and I've never quite figured out how to navigate a museum. But when a museum features paintings by American Impressionists, then at least I feel more at home with the subject matter. I have spent many summer hours gazing at flowers and trees around town and especially in my own back yard. I even enjoy pedaling my bike through Bridgeport and observing the riotous weeds along the road side. I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of the local.

The artists who visited Florence Griswold's house on the river were very much interested in Connecticut and Long Island locales. Florence's father was a sea captain who owned a large home in the picturesque New England town. Over time the family fortunes changed, and Ms. Griswold was left alone in the crumbling old manse with no prospects of keeping it up. She decided to take in boarders and soon found herself hosting a summer art colony; a collection of Bohemians who would become the American Impressionist painters.

The seductive ambiance of the house and property remains strong a century later. The extensive grounds gently roll all the way back to the sleepy Lieutenant River. A huge walnut tree that once shaded her famous visitors still stands near the big yellow house with green shutters. A couple of outbuildings and Florence's gardens and vegetable patch have all been carefully restored. The gardens feature many favorite flowers of the 19th century. It is a natural work of art itself in a place that is filled with art. As I ate my lunch, I saw a ruby throated hummingbird sipping nectar from a white lily.

In the spacious back yard there is a large new pavilion reminiscent of an old barn. Its three galleries were filled with landscapes--plenty to look at without being overwhelming during a short visit. Landscape art has always appealed to me. I like flowers and trees and farm houses. I like country lanes and grassy hillsides. Looking at nature has brought me pleasure from the time I was a boy. In fact nothing seems more compelling in summer than watching cloud formations or bees exploring the globe thistle. I love the sound of a light breeze rustling the leaves of the trees. A pool of maple shade in a sunny green lawn is like a work of art to me.

In my own way, I have always tried to put what I see into words. Even these small journalistic efforts to capture beauty have taught me how difficult it is to create images of what we see. This is exactly what all great artists do. The gift of the Impressionists is to remind us of the extraordinary beauty in the ordinary; a flock of sheep, a meandering stream, an overgrown path leading nowhere.

Some years ago I became interested in drawing the things I usually describe in words. I was trying for realism but produced only a series of primitive-looking sketches that nonetheless pleased me. I soon went back to my journal writing again, content to resume my wordsmithing. But I did learn something important: the more you look at something, the more it changes. We may have a fixed idea of a tree or a flower but when we stop and observe it closely, the reality is more complex and mysterious. Try looking at the sky for five minutes and you will understand what I'm talking about. Reality is in constant morphing motion. The Impressionists caught this transient beauty in the way they played with color and mood. When I thought about the paintings, I realized that they all depicted something in nature, and yet they were decidedly not nature. They were skillful representations of farm scenes, winter landscapes and waterfalls. All were painted on flat canvas surfaces and occupied only a fraction of space compared to the real thing.

As we strolled the grounds at noon, delighted by the glorious summer day, I realized that sheer existence always trumps art. All of our arts, no matter how masterful, are only feeble attempts at capturing the luminous nature of life. Sadly, most of us walk through it as if blindfolded. The artist can restore our lost connection to childlike wonder and help us see the shimmering surfaces of light again. I was enchanted by the pictures displayed in Miss Florence's home, but the sun outside was brighter. The brilliant blue sky begged to be painted once more because beauty is endless and so is our desire to experience and praise it.

As we lingered on the porch of the old house where the artists used to gather, l listened for their voices. But there was nothing of them left. The beautiful young women who posed at the table, the children who ran in circles around the trees, the lovers who gazed past the grassy lawn to the marshes--all of them were gone but for the images captured in paint. It was now our moment to be here under the sun. I didn't know whether to jump for joy or shed a tear at this realization. Luckily I was spared further rumination by our lunch of a tasty sandwich and a welcome drink of iced tea. Some people may get lost in the world of art, but hunger always brings me down to earth.

Barry Wallace is a Fairfield writer. His "Between the Lines" appears each Wednesday.