In later paintings-- a Brueghel, a Dali-- a hill could also be a breast grazed by clouds, the breast of a woman lying on her back
facing heaven. But in this painting by the Osservanza Master (about whom nothing is known, not even his real name) the hill is just a hill
beneath an arch of cirrus, although it swirls like cream to a soft peak, although it hides a distant church blushing in the dusk. I love this painting,
no larger than a leaf of notebook paper. Its sharp thin brushstrokes shiny as currycombed hair drinking track-light.
And I love the story it tells: Saint Anthony Abbot tempted by a heap of gold. Stranger than any hill transformed into a breast is that the pile of gold has vanished!
Yet the Saint is still so distinct you could lift him off the panel. His hands cupped like a calyx holding its flower he gazes downward
at the damaged place where the gold has been, where now a small pink ghost lingers like a kiss on the hillside. But it's hard to know if he's still
surprised by the temptation he'd once found at his feet, or by the rabbit crouching there, forever bearing a tree rooted in air. Or is he simply amazed
that what he never had was taken away
Yerra SugarmanIn later paintings– a Brueghel, a Dali– a hill could also be a breast grazed by clouds, the breast of a woman lying on her back
facing heaven. But in this painting by the Osservanza Master (about whom nothing is known, not even his real name) the hill is just a hill
beneath an arch of cirrus, although it swirls like cream to a soft peak, although it hides a distant church blushing in the dusk. I love this painting,
no larger than a leaf of notebook paper. Its sharp thin brushstrokes shiny as currycombed hair drinking track-light.
And I love the story it tells: Saint Anthony Abbot tempted by a heap of gold. Stranger than any hill transformed into a breast is that the pile of gold has vanished!
Yet the Saint is still so distinct you could lift him off the panel. His hands cupped like a calyx holding its flower he gazes downward
at the damaged place where the gold has been, where now a small pink ghost lingers like a kiss on the hillside. But it’s hard to know if he’s still
surprised by the temptation he’d once found at his feet, or by the rabbit crouching there, forever bearing a tree rooted in air. Or is he simply amazed
that what he never had was taken away
Yerra Sugarman