So a stupid post came up on Facebook that offered to show me the painting that reflects my soul. Putting aside the question of the after-life, I want to say bugger off Facebook because I refuse to engage with their notion of a “soul”. But I do expect art to move me. Last year’s visit to the Van Gogh Museum reduced me to tears at the first sight of one of his self-portraits. Perhaps it was simply being in the presence of the brush strokes of this tortured genius.
FB can keep their algorithmic nonsense to themselves, because there is one painting that reflects and captures the essence of my obsession with food. Vermeer’s The Milkmaid is not a large painting, unlike the many still lives at the Rijksmuseum, too many to even look at.
There was a seat in front of “The Milkmaid” and I spent quite some time with her, having burst into tears yet again. She is a timeless representation of the traditional view of woman as nurturer. What do we associate with nurture more than milk? She’s preparing the family breakfast, though it’s probably not her family, and yet she performs her duties with a such tenderness. It’s been suggested that she may be about to make a bread and butter pudding as she pours the milk from a pitcher into a bowl.
I don’t really care. I only care about the way Vermeer has captured this fleeting moment of tranquil domesticity. And while my feminist consciousness rejects the notion that this is woman’s natural place, I love the way that Vermeer has celebrated it.