Friday, Oct. 30 —
Late in the day, when the heat has gone out of the fields, the lavender seems to hold the last of the light. This painting rests in that hour in Provence, where the rows run away from the viewer in long violet curves and every plant is built from small, separate touches of colour: lilac, plum, a flash of rose, a dark green heart at the base of each clump.
At the far end of the rows stands a small farmhouse of honey-coloured stone, its terracotta roof warmed by the low sun. Beside it a cypress rises like a dark flame, and two more stand off to the right, quiet punctuation against the soft blue of the distant hills. A thin band of straw-gold, a field already cut, glows along the horizon and keeps the eye moving between the near and the far.
The sky is the gentlest part of the picture. Peach melts into pale gold, and gold into a hazy lilac, so the whole scene feels breathed on rather than drawn. Long shadows lie between the rows, and the reddish earth in the furrows picks up the colour of the roof, tying the house to the field it serves.
The manner is that of the open-air Impressionists, who painted fast to catch a passing effect and trusted loose, visible strokes over fine detail. Here the brushwork is thick and rhythmic near the viewer, where the lavender is almost sculpted, and it softens with distance until the hills are only a wash of blue. That change of touch gives the field its depth and makes the walk toward the house feel long and unhurried.
There is no one in the scene and nothing is happening, which is the point. It is the pause between work and evening, when the air smells of the crop and the swallows have not yet gone in. The mood is warm, patient and a little sleepy, the kind of view that invites you to stand still until the colour fades from violet to blue.