Free Travels in Vermeer by Michael White Page B

it’s a long, dark walk from Vermeer to Degas, when once again the human form itself is all. The lights come on, and the eye, the lens, is open.
    5. Straight Shot
    I find a place to sit on a marble bench in the magnificent central rotunda. In the middle of it all, there’s a winged statue of Mercury, towering above his fountain and temporarily surrounded by hundreds of potted Christmas poinsettias and amaryllis. I’m worn out. Certainly this bottom is something like the other one, I’m thinking. Of course, no one is ever grateful for the damages caused by a family breaking up, or the loss of control over one’s life that comes with alcoholism or addiction.
    But I have experienced something more this time. When I walked into the room in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam and the force of the Vermeers broke over me like a wave, mercy and equipoise hit dead center in a soul in serious need of them. In some profound, mysterious way, those paintings had the measure of me and of my heartbreak.
    Here’s the thing: Vermeer did not invent himself or the stillness and clarity of his gaze for critics and historians to mull over. More than for those who want it, the light of Vermeer is intended for those who need it. This specific purpose or reason for each work’s existence not only underscores the urgency of each work, but also might help explain why there are only thirty-five Vermeers in the world: such manifestations of clarity and grace cannot have come often to him, to anyone.
    Suddenly, I realize I won’t always have this need, this purpose, the hunger that is spurring me on through galleries at closing time. I stand—my legs feel fresh again. I hurry back to the Vermeers to stand before them for the last half hour. This time, I leave my notebook in my backpack, which I stash in a corner with my jacket.
    An executive-type in a khaki safari outfit comes into the room. He pauses briefly but decisively before each picture—as if checking off some box in his head—then moves on to the next. Finally, he stops directly in front of Woman Holding a Balance . I step back. He unsheathes his camera; for a moment I can see the orange dot projected by the sensor as it tracks across the canvas, settles on the woman’s throat. When I look again, he’s gone.
    And now a guard comes forward and tells me, “Sir, the museum is closing.” I put my jacket on, pull myself together. The weigher of souls, counterpart of St. Michael, is still focused on her task.
    Stepping out into the diffuse, rainy air, I think of Vermeer and his eleven children. How serene his vision; how manic his life must actually have been. I remember his standing debt to the baker, Hendrick van Buyten, who received one painting while Vermeer was still living and two more from Catharina, after Vermeer’s death, in settlement for the family’s bread.
    Then I consider the deep, uncanny solace of Vermeer’s room: the gaze, the visual field in which we—whoever we are—take root for the moment. Look: a Vermeer. His work isn’t necessarily comforting: Girl with a Red Hat has left me feeling burned, aspersed, my heart tricked out of its hiding place.
    But I feel noticeably buoyed as I follow Pennsylvania Avenue toward the side street where my car is parked. Suddenly hungry, I wonder, Is there a good restaurant nearby? Yes. I can smell the garlic, smoke, and minted lamb from a Greek café. I follow my nose; the aroma hits me hard at the next corner. After I feast, it’s six hours south on I-95, a straight shot home.
    6. Poems
    For ten hours a day through the next few weeks, I work on poems—happily, happily—trying to capture the images while they’re still fresh. I use the turns and rhythms of poetry to try to think my way into the heart of each scene. In my poem on Woman Holding a Balance, I write: “All we know of her is what we see: / how—weightless, effortless / as flame—she