La Lune verte 1972

Joan Miró's "La Lune verte," or "The Green Moon," is a world made with simple shapes and lines. The color palette is bold and primary, like a child's building blocks, and it feels deeply intuitive, like doodling in the margins of a notebook. Look at the moon itself - a thick, textured green crescent. It's not just a flat shape, but a field of mottled color, maybe even built up in layers of paint to give it depth and weight. The scribbled yellow lines that seem to emanate from behind it contrast so well with the blocky and grounded forms below it. It's almost as if Miró is diagramming the hidden energies of the universe, or maybe just having some fun with the physicality of paint. I find myself asking, how much of this was planned, and how much of it was just a happy accident? Miró's playfulness with form reminds me a little of Paul Klee, who also had a knack for turning simple shapes into complex, imaginative worlds. Both artists invite us to see the world with new eyes and to find joy in the process of creation.