Forår i haven 1934

Karl Schou painted this square canvas of a garden, probably en plein air, the impressionistic style suggesting a moment captured. There is this ochre pathway in the foreground, made with thick brushstrokes. I imagine Schou standing here, brush in hand, trying to catch that light, that ephemeral moment of spring, and he’s wrestling with what is in front of him and what is in his mind. I think painting is like that, an accumulation of marks that hopefully start to sing. The wall—is it brick? stucco?—is painted in a similar ochre to the path, blocking our access to the heart of the garden. The wall leads our eye toward the centre of the painting, to that little, ambiguous sculpture. But the trees reach high above the wall, their branches stretching toward the sky, those white blooms alluding to something beyond. What is this secret place? I want to know. Like Bonnard or Vuillard, Schou’s painting gives us a glimpse into the private sphere, a world of beauty and quiet contemplation. We see these paintings, and then we, in turn, are inspired to make something, to keep the conversation going.