Fragonard: The Swing

A few months back in another post on this blog I made a few comments about Thomas Cole's Voyage of Life paintings. Although I am no art critic, and would not even attempt to pass myself off as one, I still enjoy commenting on various works that happen to interest me. One of these works comes from the Rococo Period. It is called The Swing painted by the French artist Jean Honore Fragonard in 1765.

     Jean Honore Fragonard was born in France in 1732. He became a student of the artist Chardin who was known as a master of still life painting. Fragonard was heavily influenced by the Dutch school of painters and set to work on his own unique style. There are various versions of The Swing painted by Fragonard. The most famous of these is in the Wallace Collection in London. It depicts a young lady on a swing being watched by a would be admirer who lurks in the foliage in gleeful anticipation. There is however, another version of The Swing that I find more to my taste. it is located in the National Gallery of Art in Washington D.C.

                                         Jean Honore Fragonard The Swing 1765

     It was a gloomy, rainy day in Washington in February of 1992. I found myself staring helplessly at the almost minuscule image of a young lady sitting on a swing with the ominous backdrop of a mountain, puffy clouds, and trees. The lady is a member of a garden party where the participants have come to enjoy the rural atmosphere and the adrenaline of their youth. As I become entranced I suddenly find myself a young man dressed in knee breaches with powdered wig. I glance furtively with admiration and interest at the beauty on the swing. Everything comes to life...in action...I am now part of this 18th century garden party and I advance from the treeline, the tails of my grey coat trailing behind me. The swing is in motion as I take a seat near one of the stone lions and find myself smiling. she is smiling too, exuberating youth and flushed with the rosy red cheeks of life that are by nature part of her vibrant spirit. A gaunt servant approaches and offers me tea from a dainty china cup which i gladly accept. Placing the cup to my lips I take a sip and my mind soon wanders from the girl to the trees and smoky white mountains in the background which I still see as brush strokes from the artists tool. What is this place? Is it heaven? I still smile knowing that this is not real...but I am soon asking myself, what is real? The dreary smog and hustle and bustle...the mad rush of humanity towards something unattainable outside of this canvas? Or this...whatever...wherever I was, sipping tea somewhere in the artists imaginary realm where only beauty and bliss reside. I suddenly feel a great pull and find myself struggling against it, wishing to remain captured by the artists brush. Please! I will gladly trade my vapid corporeal existence for the eternal brush strokes of Fragonard's garden party. I call for Fragonard to assist me...paint me into the landscape! But alas, I sorrowfully recall that
the great painter has been mouldering in his grave for two centuries. I am now standing on the sidewalk in front of the Gallery. Humanity all around me...horns honking their selfish madness, faceless souls putting one foot in front of the other marching to the beat of their own realities.