Still Life

by Sarah Winman

We just need to know what the heart’s capable of, Evelyn. And do you know what it’s capable of? I do. Grace and fury.

It’s what we’ve always done. Left a mark on a cave, or on a page. Showing who we are, sharing our view of the world, the life we’re made to bear. Our turmoil is revealed in those painted faces—sometimes tenderly, sometimes grotesquely, but art becomes a mirror. All the symbolism and the paradox, ours to interpret. That’s how it becomes part of us. And as counterpoint to our suffering, we have beauty.

Beautiful art opens our eyes to the beauty of the world, Ulysses. It repositions our sight and judgment. Captures forever that which is fleeting. A meager stain in the corridors of history, that’s all we are. A little mark of scuff. One hundred and fifty years ago Napoleon breathed the same air as we do now. The battalion of time marches on. Art versus humanity is not the question, Ulysses. One doesn’t exist without the other. Art is the antidote. Is that enough to make it important? Well yes, I think it is.

And stay invincible, she said.

“Luce intellettual, piena d’amore.” What’s that mean, sir? Light of the mind, full of love. Nice. Isn’t it? One of yours, sir? No! Dante. The belief that a combination of intellect and beauty can make the world a better place.

The gift of intellect and artistic achievement as God-given as faith.

The Ponte Vecchio was saved by a sentimental Führer, who’d visited the city in ’38 and formed an attachment to the famous landmark. Darnley said it proved the man had fucking awful taste. So had invading Poland, added Ulysses.