The Open Air 



strongly affect the nerves of the eye. Straw going 

 by the road on a dusky winter's day seems so 

 pleasantly golden, the sheaves lying aslant at the 

 top, and these bundles of yellow tubes thrown up 

 against the dark ivy on the opposite wall. Tiles, red 

 burned, or orange coated, the sea sometimes cleanly 

 defkiite, the shadows of trees in a thin wood where 

 there is room for shadows to form and fall; some 

 such shadows are sharper than light, and have a faint 

 blue tint. Not only in summer but in cold winter, 

 and not only romantic things but plain matter-of-fact 

 things, as a waggon freshly painted red beside the 

 Wright's shop, stand out as if wet with colour and 

 delicately pencilled at the edges. It must be out of 

 doors; nothing indoors looks like this. 



Pictures are very dull and gloomy to it, and very 

 contrasted colours like those the French use are neces- 

 sary to fix the attention. Their dashes of pink and 

 scarlet bring the faint shadow of the sun into the room. 

 As for our painters, their works are hung behind a 

 curtain, and we have to peer patiently through the 

 dusk of evening to see what they mean. Out-of-door 

 colours do not need to be gaudy a mere dull stake of 

 wood thrust in the ground often stands out sharper 

 than the pink flashes of the French studio ; a faggot ; 

 the outline of a leaf; low tints without reflecting 

 power strike the eye as a bell the ear. To me they 

 are intensely clear, and the clearer the greater the 

 pleasure. It is often too great, for it takes me away 

 from solid pursuits merely to receive the impression, 

 as water is still to reflect the trees. To me it is very 

 painful when illness blots the definition of outdoor 

 things, so wearisome not to see them rightly, and 

 more oppressive than actual pain. I feel as if I was 

 struggling to wake up with dim, half -opened lids and 



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