I Don’t Know If You or Anyone near You Felt “Happy” but I Know You Got the Paintings Done

1 Minute Read Time

Photo by Mike Petrucci on Unsplash
In the otherwise sedate painting of seventeenth-century flowers, a 
hothouse number. An importation from the colonies, nurtured into
bloom and the representation of bloom. Unfurling white folds and
scalloped folds of folds unfolding, and ten children all taking their
turns at making it impossible for their mother to concentrate on
the light from within the heart of every flower. List the successful
number of paintings from Rachel Ruysch, and you will glean she
nurtured her vases and flowers alongside a garden of human souls
she either did, or did not, coax into similar bloom. History has not
asked much of her biography. Her husband painted human faces.
They made and made and made, together and separately. In the
quiet dark, which was almost never, their hands opened, clasped,
roamed. Their maker hands would not remain still.

Read more from Issue 16.2.

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