Berthe Morisot’s Girl on a Divan, displayed in the National Gallery, London, caught my eye as soon as I saw it. The painting was the last one I saw in the Impressionist room in the Gallery, but despite having been on my feet for hours before I stood for several minutes looking at the painting from all angles. There was something wonderful about the painting.

Girl on a Divan portrays a woman gazing directly at the viewer. The woman’s expression is relaxed and friendly; the woman has a slight smile on her face. The woman is wearing a white dress with several stripes of colour. The stripes are somewhat incongruent with the white, not having any particular pattern. With that said, the stripes add to the depth of the image, and the colours of the stripes – mainly blue and orange – contrast well with the blue background.

In the middle ground, a shade of blue/green is used to create what could be a chair. This further adds depth to the painting. The woman has one arm raised slightly. Could the arm be resting on the arm of the chair?

I love the use of blue in this painting; the colours are both soft (through the shades chosen) and eye-catching (through the extensive use of blue for the background) at the same time.

The painting is made with sketch-like brushstrokes for the dress, background, and the hair; the face is more relatively detailed.

After several minutes of looking at the painting, I noticed a white dot in the left eye: a glimmer of light. This brought me a lot of joy. First, it took a while to notice this detail! I love “Slow Looking”. Second, after noticing the glimmer in the eye, I thought about how much it adds to the expression of the sitter.

Girl on a Divan is now one of my favourite paintings.

I didn’t include a photo of the painting in this post for licensing reasons. You can see a detailed photo of the painting on the National Gallery website.

_detailed photo of the painting on the National Gallery website_ displayed in the National Gallery, London Slow Looking

I am writing about a few paintings to help me build my description skills. My analyses are not formal or comprehensive. If nothing else, I hope that you enjoy the painting that I feature!

The warm colours in Monet’s The Church at Varengeville (1882) stood out to me the moment I saw them in a corner of the Courtauld Institute in London [1].

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The Church at Varengeville

In the top left of the painting, the subject, the church of Varengeville, is painted. But the church takes up a relatively small portion of the painting: a much greater portion is dedicated to the cliffside, bushes, and two trees that span from the bottom to the top third of the canvas. This is in contrast to other paintings of churches that Monet has made like the Roen Cathedral and the Church at Vétheuil where the church takes up much more of the canvas.

The Church of Varengeville stood out to me for its use of colour; Monet paintings always make me feel something, and one question I would like to answer in my studies is why his use of colour makes me feel the way it does. The sky is a warm yellow. Is the sun about to set?

I appreciate the contrast between the sky and the ocean: the sky is yellow and bright, whereas the ocean is a soft blue with yellow tones. The sea and sky are separated by a horizon line.

The bushes in the foreground are more clearly defined than the fields of grass; the bushes use a mix of vivid yellows and reds and oranges, whereas the grass uses a more limited range of colours. The left side of the painting is orange. I am unsure what phenomena or flora it depicts.

I was mesmerised while looking at this painting, studying up close the detail of the brushstrokes in the bushes and from afar the overall composition and use of colour. I like to look at paintings from many different angles to help me understand what I see, and if what I see is different as I change my distance from the work.

Now that I am back home and analysing the painting, I realise that, if I put a romantic lens on, the two trees in the foreground take on new significance for me. There is something beautiful about there being two trees so close seeing the sun set together.

Visual analysis aside: this painting brings me joy.

[1]: The painting is displayed as part of a temporary exhibit while the Barber Institute of Arts that usually houses the painting is renovated.

_The Church at Varengeville_

Trafalgar Square is a special place. The architecture and views are breathtaking. The National Gallery, the church of St. Martins in the Fields, Canada House, and more, all surround the Square. From the right place you can look down Whitehall and see Big Ben.

In the heart of the Square is the National Gallery, a huge, Neoclassical building. I have visited the gallery a few times and only last weekend, on my most recent visit, did I start to feel oriented in the gallery. I love that feeling of getting lost in an art gallery; of wandering around and exploring and building a map of where things are. I also love the feeling of looking back and realising it is getting easier to find your way because you have visited a place a few times before.

I studied the architecture of the new Sainsbury Wing in the V&A course I did last year. [1]

Visiting now, following my studies, I came to see the building. with a new perspective. My first perspective is as it always is when I see beautiful architecture: wow. Then I thought “I studied the new building!” I started to appreciate the architecture more.

I noticed the columns that I had until then only studied on the screen. I find myself looking at columns in architecture more. I now know the difference between an Ionic and Corinthian column; learning about architecture feels like learning languages of design.

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Inside the gallery, I noticed a few paintings I had seen before only on a computer screen. That’s Hay Wain by John Constable! I thought with excitement as I noticed the painting. The gallery is also home to Turner’s Rain, Steam, and Speed, a painting I first learned about through a blog post. I studied the painting with great excitement. What can I see that I don’t remember from looking at it first? Many details stood out: the bridge feels darker in the real painting; there is a person in a boat in the bottom left of the image. The boat is tiny in comparison to the scale of the bridges.

I went to the National Gallery with new perspectives: of architecture, of seeing paintings I had only until then seen on a computer screen.

When I visited the Rembrandt room I said to myself I thought I knew Rembrandt’s work. I had seen paintings by him before, understood that he used dark backgrounds to highlight the subject of the painting. But I knew so little: of Rembrandt’s difficult life, of his changing artistic style over the years, of how expressions were his subject.

On reflection, studying a work of art involves a lot of “take twos”: of looking and looking again to gain a better understanding of a painting, either in one sitting (looking around a work and coming back to different features) or across multiple sittings. Impressions of art change with time, too: with knowledge of the artist, the time period in which the work was painted, growing knowledge of how others painted similar subject matters, my own new experiences since I last saw the painting, and the context in which a painting is seen (location, digital vs. physical).

As I learn more, I know more of what to look out for in a work of art. I am learning to distinguish details that are significant in painting: how colour is used, perspective, theme, brush-stroke, symbols. I recently learned that anchors are the symbol of hope in some paintings.

I will soon be starting my first art history block in school where I’ll be learning how to use a visual analysis toolkit to analyse a painting. I am excited to learn and apply what I learn when I visit galleries in the future.

In a lecture this week we were asked to say what we saw in a painting as a light introduction to visual analysis. One person noted the presence of a dog under a table. The lecturer then said they had looked at the painting many times through the course of their teaching and never noticed the dog. This makes me think about how we all see different things, and how much there is to see even in art we already know.

This is my (very late) submission for the June 2025 IndieWeb Carnival on the topic “Take Two.”

[1]: The Sainsbury Wing has a storied, tumultuous history; then-Prince Charles publicly criticised one of the proposals for a redesign in May 1984. Today, the Sainsbury Wing houses a wonderful collection of medieval art.

Rain, Steam, and Speed learned about through a blog post _June 2025 IndieWeb Carnival on the topic “Take Two.”_ 1]: [The Sainsbury Wing has a storied, tumultuous history

Two years ago, I visited Greenwich in London. I had been to London before, but Greenwich was that bit further out so I hadn’t made the trip. What drew me to Greenwich was the Royal Observatory and the Prime Meridian line. The day I visited, I had great joy standing over the Prime Meridian line, thinking I had one foot in one meridian and one foot in another.

The Royal Observatory was fascinating. I remember vividly some of the clocks and timepieces I saw. There, I learned about the connection between time and the sea. Celestial navigation. Ships can use clocks to more accurately calculate where they are in the world.

I remember vividly the physical spaces in that museum: the spacious interior of the observatory dome, the equipment at the Prime Meridian line, the display cases with various time pieces. I remember the joy I felt at seeing different clocks. I remember in what direction I was looking. Even if the details of a specific exhibit allude me, I remember the place where I stood when I saw it.

After visiting the Royal Observatory, I walked down the hill and went to the National Maritime Museum. While a maritime museum is not as interesting to me as an art gallery, I heard from a friend that the award winning pictures from the Astronomy Photographer of the Year competition were on display in one of the galleries.

One of the things I love about museums is that one exhibit can draw you in and, hours later, you can find yourself with a new interest. The Astronomy Photographer of the Year exhibition was my anchor. From there, I wandered around the museum and explored other exhibits. I learned so much: of voyages to the arctic and antarctic, of the extent of the British Navy, and so much more. After that experience, I would definitely visit a maritime museum again.

Within the maritime museum, I have vivid memories of being in different spaces. I remember the wall on which a particular photograph that caught my eye was on display. I could walk you to the picture today (although the exhibition has since rotated, so I could only take you to the wall, not the picture itself). I can’t remember the name of the photograph, but I remember where I was when I saw it. I remember the vivid blue colour of the ocean, illuminated by, if I remember, some kind of plankton. I was in awe at so many of the paintings in that room.

Many of my museum memories are anchored in a specific place: a room, a hallway, a specific wall. The images of some spaces are vivid. I remember where I was when I saw a work of art that particularly caught my attention (Even if, ironically, I couldn’t tell you how I got from the entrance of the museum to that piece. Oh! Museums can be labyrinths).

I started writing this post because I read Elena’s contribution to the IndieWeb Carnival this month that mentioned the term “Wildlife Photographer of the Year”. Reading those words instantly reminded me of the aforementioned Astronomy Photographer of the Year exhibit, and the specific wall on which the picture that really caught my attention was.

I have just found the picture: Like Blue Lava by Petr Horalek. The photograph is wonderful.

I started that day in Greenwich with the desire to see the Royal Observatory and the Prime Meridian. I ended the day with a newfound appreciation for astronomy photography and maritime history, and memories that, when recalled, make me feel as if I am back in Greenwich.

Celestial navigation Elena’s contribution to the IndieWeb Carnival Like Blue Lava by Petr Horalek

Whenever I visit an art gallery, there is inevitably a painting that sparks joy, or otherwise leaves me with an impression that sticks with me. Peter Paul Rubens’ Landscape by Moonlight was one such painting.

The painting depicts a landscape at night time. The ground and the trees on the left are dark. The river in the bottom left is illuminated by reflection of moonlight which draws attention to an animal in the foreground. A full moon peeks through an otherwise cloudy sky.

The sky, and the top of the trees, are dotted with specs of white paint. Stars.

I didn’t think too much about the stars until I read the commentary for the painting written by Francesca Herrick, the Public Programmes Educator at The Courtauld (plaque visible in the interactive view of the Permanent Collection), which notes:

The little flecks of white paint that form the twinkling stars suggest relaxed and joyful experimentation.

Notably, the stars appear in front of the clouds.

I remember smiling when I saw this painting. I stared at it for a while. I remember being struck by those words “joyful experimentation”, especially when reflecting on how the piece was painted between 1635-40. I was surprised and delighted that an attribute in a painting from centuries ago – the way the stars were painted – was perceived by someone as exhibiting “joyful experimentation”.

I started to think about how Rubens felt working on this piece. Why did he decide to add the stars as he did? Did Rubens smile when adding the stars? We will never know, but this perspective stuck with me.

As I moved onto the next room, I took one last look back at the painting to savour it for one more second. It is a beautiful piece.

_Landscape by Moonlight_ plaque visible in the interactive view of the Permanent Collection

Tonight, a project very near and dear to my heart, the Bay Lights in San Francisco, are officially re-lighting after a three-year hiatus. It’s been an incredible journey getting here. I literally mortgaged my apartment in 2013 to help fund them the first time around, and it’s such an honor to see them relit now with better technology and new programming from the amazing artist Leo Villareal.

Whether you’re looking down at the lights from a penthouse or top office, or up at them from the water along the Embarcadero, this is truly an art project that illuminates the soul of everyone in San Francisco, radically accessible and open.

I’ve heard they’re still raising around 500k to close out the project. You can dedicate a light here for someone special. I’m going to do one to honor my father, who passed in 2016. If you’d like to be part of San Francisco’s boom loop and have a pleasant twinkle of enlightenment every time you see the bridge, I encourage you to donate as well!

If you live somewhere with a view of the bridge, think of it as buying a piece of art you’ll enjoy every night, and also having that warm feeling of being part of making San Francisco more beautiful for everyone.

I’m on the board of Illuminate, which only has two full-time employees, and I’ve never seen another non-profit generate so much public joy and benefit with so few people. They’re also behind the Golden Mile and the live music at the Golden Gate Bandshell.

Please consider making a one-time donation of a light, which is anywhere from $100 to $2,500, or become a recurring member of the Illuminate Tribe, or if you are really part of making San Francisco better consider being an Illuminary at 50k/yr.

Also, thank you to all the WordPress community members who have done so much to support this project and help them fundraise and improve their website. It’s such a great example of the WordPress open source spirit and ethos.

San Francisco is so back! Let’s go!

I love the storytelling work that the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York does. For example, the Frame of Mind podcast highlights short stories of people’s relationships with museums – around fifteen minutes long each. It is a great listen.

Last year, I watched a video by The Met on their YouTube channel as part of their “Meet Me at the Met” series. The video was an interview with Orhan Pamuk, a Nobel Prize-winning author. The video has stuck with me ever since.

When I think about “the artist was here,” the interview with Pamuk comes to mind. Orhan mentions that he found inspiration in several paintings in the museum. Museums can inspire writers. That has stuck with me. On reflection, I have written a fair bit about museums as places, and I have so much more I want to say. Museums inspire me.

Pamuk talks about the “museum-ness” of the museum. This makes me think about all the qualities of the museum as a place: the interior design, how each room feels, how it feels to walk between rooms, the art on the walls, the conversations that people have while studying an artwork.

A trip to the museum engages all my senses. I become aware of the past (through the art I am looking at) and the present (through the people I hear in the room) all at once. I think about the future (by reflecting on what I see and what it means), too.

What stood out to me most about the video was that both Pamuk, who in addition to being a writer also painted, and I had visited the museum. The artist was here. Watching the video again, Pamuk enters the Monet room in which one of my favourite works of art is kept: Ice Floes. A painting in front of which I stood for many minutes, admiring every detail. A painting so captivating I didn’t want to leave the gallery.

Countless people will have been in the Monet room; the same can be said of every room in every museum. Two people who have been to a museum have shared space, maybe not at the same time, but through time. When a friend mentions a museum that we have both been to, I think about this idea. We have both been there; we both have a story to tell.

This post was inspired by a prompt Frances gave me when we were exchanging blog post titles. I knew I wanted to write something for this prompt, but I had no idea what. I ended up writing about Sparking joy, but I kept the idea of "The artist was here" in my mind for when I was ready to write about it. Some things take time.

_Frances_ _Sparking joy_ Frame of Mind podcast an interview with Orhan Pamuk

Muscogee artist Dana Tiger shares her life story – the ups and downs, her career, her family and their iconic apparel company – with exceptional honesty and inspiring resilience. In Tiger, director Loren Waters paints an incredibly compelling portrait of this remarkable artist, poignantly immersing us in Dana’s perspective of the world around her, and revealing how art has served as a healing practice in her family.

“The biggest inspiration behind Tiger was Dana Tiger herself”, Waters candidly confessed. While that is true for most artist portrait documentaries, Waters explained that the film was “really rooted in speaking to her character and really trying to create a painterly image with her, but also a portrait”. Dana’s voice feels present throughout all the directorial choices in the film. From her unwavering positivity to the artistic legacy of her family, the film feels incredibly personal and invites the audience into her world with a rare sense of intimacy.

“This film is a tribute to Dana’s life and her family’s incredible journey”

Waters gives Dana a voice, allowing her to share her own story in her own words. Her resilience and energy is infused in the visuals and pacing of the film, with DP Robert L. Hunter framing her in a way that makes Tiger feel like a homage to her and her work. This approach also creates a space for Dana to share her challenges and successes with agency, making the film all the more empowering. Eva Dubovoy’s editing and Amanda Moy’s sound design further enhance the empowering feeling of the film, adding to a rhythm that creates an effective emotional journey. 

“This film is a tribute to Dana’s life and her family’s incredible journey. It seeks to honor not only their legacy of artistic innovation but also their resilience in the face of adversity”, Waters shared. Despite the grief and adversity captured, Tiger also show the hope radiating from Dana in every second of the short. Her presence is not only inspiring but drives the film in a deeply engaging and captivating way. Waters crafts a work that feels celebratory while carrying an undeniable emotional depth that takes the audience by surprise and makes the watching experience so powerful.

After its World Premiere at the 2025 edition of Sundance, Tiger made its way around the festival circuit with notable stops at SXSW, deadCenter, Seattle, Aspen and the Palm Springs ShortFest. It also picked up multiple awards along the way, and was eligible for consideration at the 2026 Oscars. Waters is currently working on a short narrative film called A Map to the Next World.