Paintings

A young woman is reading. Perhaps the room is silent. Then someone appears, and everything changes. The visitor is the Archangel Gabriel, and the news he brings will transform Mary's life forever: she will become the mother of Jesus. The story occupies only a few lines in the Gospel of Luke, but it gave artists an irresistible scene. How do you paint the moment when someone receives news like this? What would Mary's expression look like?

There is something that changes when we learn the story behind Vincent van Gogh's sunflowers. They stop being simply flowers. They stop being that intense yellow we instantly recognize as his.

Because during those days in August 1888, while Vincent was painting in Arles, the sunflowers were tied to something much bigger: a house, a friend who had not yet arrived and the dream of turning that place into a refuge for artists. And all of this was written down in his letters.

Imagine you walk into a small chapel in the heart of Naples. Outside, the city is noise: narrow alleys, voices bouncing off the walls, laundry hanging from balcony to balcony. Inside, suddenly, silence. You walk slowly and, in the center of the nave, you see a body lying down, covered by a shroud.

This woman is not dreaming. She is being crushed. Look closely. She hangs off the bed, her head thrown back and her arms limp, as if her body no longer belonged to her. On her chest sits a small, heavy, motionless creature. And it is staring at you. At you. Throughout history, dreams have been read in many ways.