Exceptional Light

'A Young Woman standing at a Virginal', Johannes Vermeer, 1670-1672

It feels to me as if this Covid year has brought us face to face with our identities. While we have been locked down and regulated by tiers, our movements governed by fear and social responsibility, our longings have revealed what matters most in our lives and therefore who we are. I am conscious that we have all learnt what we most cherish by its absence. For so many people this will be contact with loved ones, easy companionship and the blessing of uncomplicated touch. For others, the hollowness in their lives will be formed by the restrictions on worship, pub time, gym sessions, visits to hairdressers, the library, and regular cafes because the rhythms of these activities provide colour and comfort.

As the months have passed and lockdown has gone from novelty to uneasy normal, Liam and I have felt the enforced separation from our families with a sort of gnawing, perpetual pain that we numb by keeping busy with mundane tasks. I have missed the familiar-as-my-slippers pleasure of pulling up a chair at friends’ kitchen tables for coffee and a chat; Liam has struggled without the freedom to be where he wants when he wants. Suddenly, the hills of the north Lakes seem a very long way away and our much-loved friends Tom and Anna, who live close to the River Tay in Perthshire, have been out of hugging distance for months and months. Liam and I have agonised about the knowledge that Liam’s mum is not safe from the Covid-19, even in hospital. And despite plenty of shared creativity, we have run out of ideas about how we can sustain our elderly neighbours as they struggle with loneliness and boredom. We are haunted by the figure of Kath, our lovely friend, standing at her front window in the hope of catching a glimpse of a passer-by.

Once the initial shock of the experience wore off, Liam and I have dealt with the pandemic status quo in different ways. Liam’s dog walks become longer and longer each day. He sets off early, happy to be solo with his furry soul-mate, and they are gone for hours on unplanned routes that take them through Liam’s favourite woods and up onto the fells. Meanwhile, I try to break the hermetic seal of our lockdown home by hunting out new learning. Liam’s resilience is renewed by wild places and weather of all sorts; my resilience is strengthened by the diversion of alternative perspectives.

In search of fresh thoughts, I signed up for a weekly email from the Director of the National Gallery, Gabriele Finaldi, who gives concise and perceptive commentaries on paintings from the Gallery’s collection. When I saw that one of this week’s paintings was Vermeer’s 'A Young Woman standing at a Virginal', I celebrated with fresh coffee in my favourite cup and an illicit chocolate digestive.

I have been fascinated by Vermeer since my first encounter with his work and it was such a joy to read Finaldi’s brief introduction to this painting’s finely wrought detail. I am intrigued by Vermeer’s depiction of cool Northern light and the way that it falls on faces, floor tiles, window frames, fabric, furniture and patches of whitewashed plaster. Reading about ‘A Young Woman standing at a Virginal’ reminded me of a visit to The Louvre when I studied the floorplans from every angle until I found the corner where ‘The Lacemaker’ is hung. By the time that I found the tiny painting, I had a severe case of gallery fatigue and felt dizzy with hunger and dehydration. I remember the painting hung just to the right of the wide entrance to the room and I stood stunned by the intensity of the image, just 24.5 cm wide. The young woman in primrose yellow seemed almost intimidatingly absorbed in her task and - to the alarm of the gallery’s security guard - I leaned in to study the 340 year old brushstrokes, trying to see how Vermeer had spun oil into the fine lace collar that frames her studious face.

My very favourite of Vermeer’s paintings are those that depict the most ordinary of circumstances. I recognise that these portrayals are contrived - no servant pours from the same jug for hours and hours - but I love ‘The Milkmaid’s’ placid confidence, the luminous blues of ‘Woman with a Water Jug’ and the gentle privacy of ‘Woman Reading a Letter’. Hundreds of years adrift from Vermeer himself, I am comforted and delighted by these interior scenes and their curious reflection of life in lockdown. The extraordinary precision of the light and shade in Vermeer’s paintings make them lovely companions in these months when we must operate entirely from home. Winter keeps me busy with indoor chores because the days are short and thinking of Vermeer’s depiction of light draws my attention to the shafts of sunlight and patches of grey shade that fall in our home. Having read Finaldi’s email, I was inspired to search along my bookshelves for my dusty copy of Antony Bailey’s ‘A View of Delft’. My black inked scrawl on the book’s inside cover tells me that I bought it at the Cheltenham Literature Festival, 2001, and I feel an unexpected and immense relief to know that the things that mattered to me twenty years ago matter to me still.