Or Perhaps It's Grant Wood's "Spring In The Country"

Painting. Iowa. Or what looks like it may be derived from Iowa. The rolling quality to the land. The prairie-like movement of the land. And we know something of the aesthetic of the painter. So we know that this is derived from this land. Because he was adamantine about this. The taking of his subjects from the life around him. The life that is ready to hand all around about him here in this country.

Which is a sort of praise. A sort of thankfulness. A kind of offering. A kindly giving, one imagines. Looking at the thing. Here in the CRMA. Here in the Cedar Rapids Museum of Art. A kind of offering back as he worked. As he was given the opportunity to work. In Clear Lake. In the prairie sunlight there. The good last summer sunlight of his life.

And the scene itself. In it, the world’s in spring. The derived Iowa world’s deep in spring. A plant is flowering, for example. In the lower right corner of the painting. And the pastures are green. A light spring green. Where the cattle are grazing off in the distance.

And off in the further distance are windmills spinning. Spinning. Tall even in the distance above the green of the pastures. Bringing up the water from the wells, when it is needed. Water from the earth before the days of electricity to drive the motors to bring the water up. But no. No. That’s not quite it. No. Because in 1941, when this was painted, there was electricity for this sort of thing around these parts.

And off in the further distance is the horizon, where the greening earth touches cloud and sky. And as one looks at this. Considers this. It is clear from this that the earth itself is curved. And the sky is curved. Because here where they meet there is a curve that describes the rounded shape of the world out there. And by extension. Or intension. Here. Here the world is curved as well, which one can easily see in the curve of this slope here in the foreground.

Then there are the figures. The woman with hoe here in the foreground. Hoeing up a hole for the next plant. And the young man next to her kneeling in the dirt, setting out the plants. Worshipful in the dirt. Setting each plant from a wicker basket in the hole the woman makes in earth. A bucket next to them with water and a ladle. For watering each plant.

Over the crest of the hill, another figure. Over the curving crest. Coming up toward us. A man also with his shirt off. Behind two horses that are presumably pulling a plow. But we don’t actually see the plow because of the crest of the hill. The plow turning the green under for planting. Unseen here.
And so. And so there is no tractor either. But this is 1941. And there are of course tractors in 1941. Many many tractors in 1941.

And the figures. The people here. How to say this. These aren’t quite like the people who we know. The people we actually run into every day. Because. Because the features on these figures are. Well. Generalized. They’re rather smooth and bright in all this light. Rather calm and mild. Peaceful, I’d have to say. Rather absent of pain and stress and. Pride and shame. And anger. And. Well. Worldliness. Absent of the particular lines and creases and shadows we see every day in the mirror and in the faces of everyone we meet in our actual lives.

And the dirt. Well, the dirt. It’s not lumpy. Furrowy. Like normal dirt after plowing. It’s more uniform. More like an abstract dirt that is smooth. That has been generalized also and improbably smoothed. Like something. Like dirt that isn’t strictly speaking of this world.

But the clincher. The thing that really gets us to take a moment here. That takes us by the head and into this picture here. As though it were a place one might truly live. Or in which one does only and actually live. Is the tree. The singular tree here in the foreground that grows out of the hill going down. That angles oddly up out of the hill descending to the left and back. Around which has been left a disc of green. A green circle in the plowed up dirt.

The tree. The tree itself. Has been transformed by sun. By bright, bright sun that is coming from outside the frame over to our right and behind. Here in the literal world of our lives, where the real metaphorical sun lives.

It’s an extraordinary spring morning sun that. When one turns. Doesn’t strictly speaking exist here in the museum. In this abstract space. Is not visible directly here in the museum. But it nevertheless is here. Is adamantly present in this painting and has turned. Has transformed. The one tree’s leaves and explosive blossomings to white. Yellow and white. A dazzling effusion. Yellow and white as sun that has transformed it. Into a joyful, paradoxical, cool burning. Yellow and white as clouds floating overhead. Floating up and out over everything. Everywhere. From here to the horizon that is far away and curved under the brightness of sky out there. That is curved and smoothed by the liveliness of the world’s long spinning.

And now we know. Now we are sure of ourselves with this. This understanding. Because this. This is a picture of what happens in the world sometimes when. A light outside the world. A light that is pure as heaven’s light. Sometimes. Is admitted. Is permitted entrance here. Into this world of particular care. Of particular want.

To bring it back alive again. To bring it back from darkness again. To transform what we do here into something. Something that isn’t altogether. That one may struggle all one’s life to know or say. Walk about in. Enjoy.