NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction. Click on Archives on the right.
Steve Strether stands in the middle of Maxwell Avenue with Ossian sitting next to him. There is no traffic at the moment, and the light is green. He pulls on Ossian’s leash, but the dog refuses to stand up as the harness moves up, tightening towards his ears.
“You better pick him up, Steve!”
“He will be a handful!”
“Trouble is heading toward you both!”
“I am hoping this light will turn red.”
A Metro bus approaches from the left and Ossian goes into a crouch. The light turns red.
The bus stops with a hiss of breaks and Ossian rears up to attack.
“Here we go, Ossi.”
As Ossian is on his feet Steve pulls him towards me, waiting at the roadside. Ossi stumbles along behind Steve, turning on the bus and growling every few steps.
“We didn’t get far this morning.”
“How long have you been at the intersection?”
“A few minutes, but it seems longer.”
“Pretty dangerous habit.”
“Well, yes, we spent about ten minutes hanging out by our gate waiting for something to happen.”
“Westies have their own agenda, I believe.”
“Ossian does. Some mornings he is in a hurry and others he just waits for some action and won’t move on.”
Ossian sniffs my shoes, all signs of hostility gone. He puts his forepaws up on my knee for an ear-rub.
“Bel mentioned you are studying Frans Hals.”
“I don’t know about studying. I have been looking at Frans Hals’s Portrait of a Gentleman, in the National Gallery.”
“One of those old Dutch gents in a tall black hat and black doublet?”
“Yes, one of those! He lived and worked in Haarlem where the authorities of the time didn’t approve of religious painting, and this opened a market for his secular work.”
“Didn’t he paint ‘The Laughing Cavalier’?”
“He did, but the guy isn’t a cavalier.”
“How do you know?”
“They were soldiers. That man is a civilian.”
“Why is he called, The Laughing Cavalier?”
“Good question!”
“The expression isn’t so much a laugh as a grin.”
“Right, or something coming before he breaks into a laugh.”
“Or something else.”
“Frans leaves us to guess.”
“That isn’t in the National Gallery, is it?”
“No, it is in London at the Wallace Collection.”
“Well, I have seen reproductions on cookie tins, dish cloths, and mugs and even a covid mask.”
“He is a good salesman.”
“He is as flamboyant as a cavalier!”
“Hals was very good at getting the complexion of those wealthy, old, red-bearded guys.”
Ossian has stopped by a hydrant and sits looking up and down the street.
“Here we go again.”
“Or don’t go!”
Steve stands over him and pull up the harness, but Ossian won’t budge.
“Let’s give him a little time to hang out, Steve.”
“Sure.”
Steve steps back to join me in the shade of an ironwood tree growing along the fence by the hydrant.
“You know that painting was popular and made Hals’s name, in England, at least.”
“Which?”
“The so-called Cavalier who isn’t exactly laughing.”
“Isn’t it interesting how some works win popularity, and others don’t?”
“Just like now, it was the price that put it in the news.”
“Oh, did it go for millions?”
“The painting cost fifty thousand pounds which was huge in the 17th century.”
“Must be equivalent to at least three million now.”
“Oh, sure, and it would fetch multimillions today.”
“Do you think he is giving us a good-natured look or is he smirking at us from on high?”
“I think people tend to project something of themselves in reading his expression.”
“Probably, as we don’t know him, do we?”
“No, I haven’t found his name, but have not researched very far.”
“What aroused your interest in Hals?”
“A chance, really.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was looking at a book on Rembrandt by Simon Sharma where he mentions, “the first rule of Militia feast paintings” which Van Rijn had broken in painting, ‘The Night Watch’.”
“Which turned out to be daytime after cleaning, a while back!”
For me Fred, it will always be, ‘The Night Watch’, even if the night is just old varnish and dirt.”
“Have you been reading about Rembrandt too?”
“I often find the reproductions more interesting than the text, but Sharma is good.”
“Yes, okay, and Hals?”
“That phrase, ‘Militia feast paintings’, aroused me to look further.”
“Did Hals do the customary thing?”
“Well, Frans followed tradition. Take a look at ‘Banquet of the Officers of the St Hadrian Civic Guard.” (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Frans-Hals_Banquet_of_the_Officers_of_the_St_Hadrian_Civic_Guard_Company_WGA11092.jpg
“Never seen it.”
“Well, I haven’t seen it, ‘in person’, but reproductions show twelve flamboyant officers in their best outfits, some seated, some standing around a table that looks too small for them all. They are looking in different directions trying to make an impression.”
“You make it sound chaotic.”
“I think it is, in a sense.”
“Maybe they are disputing politics after too many beers!”
“Each man is shown to advantage, it seems to me.”
“Is that customary?”
“It is. Each officer is probably rendered with a good likeness with all the accouterments of his social and military position.”
“I remember Hals’s paint sometimes looks as if it just settled out of a cloud.”
“Yeah, Fred, brush strokes that might have floated down from a hawk attack!”
“It looks like it was put down quickly, don’t you think, Steve.”
“It does, but I think each stroke is carefully placed, the energy comes from his touch.”
“A feathery touch!”
Ossian is back in his crouch, watching a Golden Retriever’s approach, with tail waving behind her like a banner.
“Here comes one of his friends!”
“I think that is Pam Dirac holding the leash.”
This time Ossi leaps forward and greets his friend by jumping up to nip her ear. He circles, to get a whiff off her hind parts. She places a heavy paw on his back and stops him. We humans exchange pleasantries while the dogs enjoy their brief reacquaintance. Pam and her ‘golden’ walk back towards Maxwell Avenue and we walk on, up the steep slope of Oval Street.
“Steve, I haven’t seen her since her picture was all over “Backstairs” for winning Fauxmont chess championship.”
“What is “Backstairs?”
“Well, you know, it is our neighborhood news and gossip site!”
“I never go there, Fred.”
“She played in Derwent’s after-school chess club, years ago.”
“Yeah, I remember now. After that picture came out, Derwent Sloot never let anyone one forget it!”
“Imagine The Fauxmont Guild commissioning a painting of the Fauxmont Militia!”
“Sothey won’t be forgotten.”
“Yeah, Steve, and hang it at the Fauxmont Preschool, to inspire the youngsters.”
“I am doubtful about inspiring them with martial glory, Fred.”
“It could be a Fourth of July thing.”
“Why not a big photo?”
“Yes, or even a video!”
“The trouble is, Fred, our Militia don’t wear colorful outfits with sashes, helmets and swords, and all that.”
“We have a different aesthetic. The Fauxmont Militia have 21st century tactical gear.”
“Yup, a lot of black and Camo.”
“It might go on Instagram.”
“Yes, for younger audiences, but what about the ‘Geezer Audience’?”
“The over fifties?”
“Maybe, or the prematurely gray young aesthetic conservatives.”
“There’s always the nostalgics!”
“Let’s not forget the bald, Fred.”
“I may be bald, but I don’t accept ‘geezerhood’.”
“I think our militiamen should be standing in and around an armored vehicle.
Possibly a Hummer ‘surplused’ from the desert operations of the oil wars.”
“What oil wars?”
“In my opinion, we went into Iraq to get control of the oil.”
“In 2003, you mean.”
“Yes, the World War II generation who knew the cruel and messy realities of war, have aged out. So, we got into that mess.”
“What about the nukes that nobody could find?”
“What about them?”
“Anyway, Steve, let’s pose our Fauxmont Militia with some interesting dogs.”
“Belgian Malinois and Dobermans are good military breeds.”
“And German shepherds.”
“Yes, in front of the old barn behind Mrs. Rutherford’s Pie Shop.”
“Steve, wasn’t that pulled down?”
“You’re right, remember? That’s why Artie Bliemisch had to move.”
Ossi has jumped into the damp shade of the roadside ditch, to investigate the culvert going under Diddlie’s driveway. He barks into the pipe’s darkness. Steve pulls him back.
“Three leaves!”
“What about them, Fred?”
“Ossi just brushed past that poison ivy.”
Fred points it out, flourishing in the shade of some overhanging Japanese honeysuckle, higher up the incline.
“It usually wears off his fur if he keeps going.” He brushes his sleeve across his sweating face.
“As I keep going, I find myself living more and more in the past, Fred!”
“Seventeenth Century Haarlem, in fact!”
