Jacob van Ruisdael: Master of
The fiction of an illumination. The bad dream of history. Rather face the luminescent, artificially ensconced in its framework of boredom and tedious handiwork, it goes like a breeze.
Mindful if it is a thing, itself some other thing of itself a reflection, sometimes. What that is, if it is anything else than an assortment of colors, the soothing refluctuations of nature, as it were, unconditioned reflexes, the freedom of thought in the abstract of its natural conditions, purposeful as it may be and not, except as a matter of course, explicit in any sense.
Except, as a rule, the conditions of viewing in alteration, periodically, if you please, from the banners of art to the banns of contemplation. Beyond this, whether you like it or not, the natural state of art, without applying to any other conditions, so that (by its own yardstick) the measure is taken of purposes outside the realm of any art beside the Shakespearean mirror.