The Tempest

Independent and bestaffed, our gentleman watches from a safe distance what might and might not be his child suckling at the breast of what might and might not be his mistress or wife. He might be enticed or repulsed, protective or careless, but he is certainly anxious. Of what? The woman is powerless, cemented to her biology and its offspring, and alone with both but for the interest, conscience or otherwise of her potential master. In this traditional idyll of father and flock, there is reason to fear. Any circumstance that denudes the woman and child of guidance and protection will destroy them, that prevents their guide from fulfilling his responsibility will ruin him, at least morally.

I’d like to think that Giorgione was enough of an artist to see past the obvious, to find poles within poles, as it were. The looming tempest of the painting’s background threatens to bookend the idyll itself with personal freedom, sexuality uncoupled from role, standing or conscience. Is it better to be cemented or alone? Some quiet mean would be sensible, but are not these the terms of our relational scale? There is no middle without ends. And of course there are more dimensions to this subject than two.