Renoir's Eyes

He wears a white cotton shirt, wrinkled, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He does not see me, though I am only inches behind him, for I come from a different time and era, long after he has left us. But maybe he senses me, senses all of us who will one day come to see with his eyes. Or maybe he sees only her.

She sits here before him, in dappled light, sun glancing off one shoulder and upper arm, a bright spot on her chest, another on her breast. We are outside, surrounded by a blur of brilliant green trees and delicate white and periwinkle flowers. I can smell the scent of an ancient honeysuckle vine and sweet alyssum, but, as Renoir paints, the woman emerges, and the garden recedes into a festival of dancing bright colors, vivid yellows and peaceful greens, blues – the hue of a cloudless summer sky. Yellow, the light of the sun, sparks around her, flashing in the midst of the green and blue, brightening the strokes of white cloth on her lap. Renoir sees what's behind her, but only as it frames her, reflects her essence.

She sits exposed before him, vulnerable, eyes somber, breasts full, head slightly tilted. He illuminates her, but not as an idealized goddess. He paints her breasts in two different sizes, each beautiful because they are hers. He reflects her with every stroke, shining the sun on her arms, across her stomach, her neck, her hair, her face.

He dots the small band of copper that circles her wrist, and the diamond that glimmers from her finger – hints of what the world outside has placed upon her. Does she like what these things mean or not? I do not know, but they are tokens, not her, and Renoir's light flick of the brush, recognizes them, but shrinks them too. Perhaps they were given to her as symbols of worship, maybe love, or as items simply for adornment, to say, Oh look, a beautiful woman.

I have wandered through ancient ruins and eyed statues of women glorified, perfect, serene, holding scepters and scales, bearing beatific smiles and wise knowing in their eyes. Goddesses.

I have read books and seen films about the man who finds the beautiful woman and loves her for her iconic fineness, her perfection, how she always knows the exact thing to say, the right thing to do – the perfect woman who will solve all his woes, be the ideal lover, the antidote to his imperfect past, the model mother to his children, the ideal this or that. She never says the wrong thing, always seems to know him one thousand and one times better than he knows himself. The Goddess Virgin Nurturing Erotic Aphrodite Woman.

I have read these books, met these men in the flesh – some who have looked at me everywhere but into my eyes – men who define perfection each in their own way and expect it as if they were not human themselves, never seeing how their desire for perfection pulls them out of life and into an endless wandering amongst statues, flat canvasses of painted women, myths written on paper, bound by glue and string.

But there are the others too, the ones who would destroy every majestic statue in the world, collapse every stone wall in their minds and hearts in order to be with a real woman in flesh, in spirit, loving her for who she is, not what he wants her to be, or to do, for him. Not for how she reflects him like a mirror, but for how she shines herself, her love, her soul.

I write of my experience as a woman, but I believe I almost could write these words were I a man, for we women can and often do embark on the same search for a mirror, for an image of a mythical god or prince incarnated, instead of a real human man to accept, appreciate, love.

In the garden, Renoir squints at this woman, dabs his brush first into a pool of white, then gray, then blue pigment. And he paints. He illumines her eyes – sad, wistful, pensive eyes, the brightest part of her.

The radiance he calls forth does not seem to come from the sun beaming down from the sky, but rather it is a light that rises from within her, passing up through her body, released through her skin. Her eyes are not perfect, invulnerable, noble princess eyes, but eyes that show feeling – not an idealized, everything is wonderful feeling, but something else. They suggest her real emotions: Sadness, perhaps a longing. That is the part of her he illuminates, the most naked part of the woman before him. And by shining the light on who she really is, he shows an act of love and stands with the men who love human women, women who are beautiful because they are real.

I have roamed the museum where this painting hangs, suspended on a wall somewhere for me and millions like me to look at, to witness. I have perhaps passed this very painting only what, six months ago? And I don't remember it, don't remember her, the light on the upper part of her face, her eyes. I do remember Renoir's other works – how I stood entranced before the Moulin de la Galette and entered the party, the sparkle, the joy, loving Renoir's exuberance, his bright colors, the movement and energy of his works.

Yet I see now how Renoir's reflection of this one young woman stands beneath the joie de vivre in his other works. Perhaps he can reveal joy for he can see beneath the surfaces of whom and what he paints. He has found the fount, and his hands dance across canvas, spraying liquid suns, skies and a breathing woman with pained eyes, across the surface. Flying paint jumps from the brushes in his hand and lands in a pattern that shows he knows how all the dots will blend and flow together, for he has dived down to the source from where we all come, where each and every one of us was born, and he loves it, and us.

I read that Anna is her name. A "Nude in Sunlight," she is called, a "Timeless Nymph." But no nymph has eyes like her. I read that she died young, three years after Renoir painted this portrait, and that the artist wrote to his friend, Dr. Gachet, urging the physician to go see Anna, for her health seemed poor. We do not know if Dr. Gachet went. We do know Renoir asked. She was no nymph, no elusive image floating in a ghost world or a land of myths, but a real woman who mattered. She needed simply some healing to re-emerge fresh, wiser, renewed and ready for a joyous whirl at the Moulin de la Galette, where she, in turn, could reach out, lay her hand on the shoulder of someone else with sad, pensive eyes, and say, "I see, I care."

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