Tuesday, June 30, 2026

Seasonal

Lodovico Settevecchie and Leonardo da Brescia
The Four Seasons
ca. 1570
fresco
Castello Estense, Ferrara


Neil Welliver
Shadow
1977
oil on canvas
Museum of Modern Art, New York

Stuart Franklin
Deer Farm at the Rothiemurcus Estate
2009
inkjet print
Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh

Howard Hodgkin
Spring Rain
2000-2002
oil on panel
Museum of Modern Art, New York

François Barois
Pomona, or, Spring
ca. 1693-1705
marble term
Musée du Louvre

Alfred Edward Chalon
Herb Gatherer
(illustration for 'Spring' in Thomson's Seasons)
1810
drawing
British Museum

Charles Demuth
Spring
1921
oil on canvas
Art Institute of Chicago

Oleksandr Bohomazov
Rayonist Composition: Spring
1914
oil on canvas
private collection

Maurice Denis
Badminton
1900
oil on canvas
Musée d'Orsay, Paris

Séraphine
Tree of Paradise
ca. 1928
oil on canvas
Museum of Modern Art, New York

Joan Eardley
Harvest
1960
oil on panel
Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh

Kazimir Malevich
To the Harvest: Marthe and Vanka
ca. 1928-29
oil on canvas
State Russian Museum, Saint Petersburg

Abraham van Diepenbeeck
Harvest Feast
before 1675
ink and wash on paper
British Museum

Ettore Tito
Autumn
1914
oil on canvas
Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Moderna e Contemporanea, Rome

Maurice de Vlaminck
Autumn Landscape
ca. 1905
oil on canvas
Museum of Modern Art, New York

Charmion von Wiegand
The Wheel of the Seasons
1957
oil on canvas
Buffalo AKG Art Museum, New York

Meissen Manufactory (Dresden)
Figures of the Four Seasons
18th century
porcelain
Musée du Louvre

    Most readers, at the present day, now that the whole noisy controversy has long taken its quiet place in the perspective of Time, would, I think, agree that Diderot and the rest of the Encyclopaedists were mistaken.  As we see him now, in that long vista, Rousseau was not a wicked man; he was an unfortunate, a distracted, a deeply sensitive, a strangely complex, creature; and, above all else, he possessed the quality which cut him off from his contemporaries, which set an immense gulf betwixt him and them: he was modern.  Among those quick, strong, fiery people of the eighteenth century, he belonged to another world – to the new world of self-consciousness, and doubt, and hesitation, of mysterious melancholy and quiet intimate delights, of long reflexions amid the solitudes of Nature, of infinite introspection amid the solitudes of the heart.  Who can wonder that he was misunderstood, and buffeted, and driven mad?  Who can wonder that, in his agitation, his perplexities, his writhings, he seemed, to the pupils of Voltaire, little less than a frenzied fiend?  'Cet homme est un forcené!'  Diderot exclaims. 'Je tâche en vain de faire de la poésie, mais cet homme me revient tout à travers mon travail; il me trouble, et je suis comme si j'avais à côté de moi un damné: il est damné, cela est sûr . . .  J'avoue que je n'ai jamais éprouvé un trouble d'âme si terrible que celui que j'ai . . .  Que je me revois plus cet homme-là, il me ferait croire au diable et à l'enfer.  Si je suis jamais forcé de retourner chez lui, je suis sûr que je frémirai tout le long du chemin: j'avais la fièvre en revenant . . .  On entendait ses cris jusqu'au bout du jardin; et je le voyais!  . . .  Les poètes ont bien fait de mettre un intervalle immense entre le ciel and les enfers.  En vérité, la main me tremble.'   Every word of that is stamped with sincerity; Diderot was writing from his heart.  But he was wrong; the 'intervalle immense' across which, so strangely and so horribly, he had caught glimpses of what he had never seen before, was not the abyss between heaven and hell, but between the old world and the new. 

– Lytton Strachey on Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1907)