[open post]
It is, on first sight, an innocuous and slightly saccharine scene, the sort one might expect of the more sanctimonious Victorian painters on a less coherent day: the dark crooked man in his antiquated draperies, seated awkwardly on the sunlit grass, all his attention bent on the blossoming crocus by his hand. The Patient Sufferer, Consoled by Dame Nature.
After a moment's observation, however, should anyone spend that long -- it becomes clear that his interest in the flower is in fact a concentration so intense that it seems to infuse the air around him. There is a sense of energy in the earth underfoot: not a crackle of lightnings seeking ground, not a surge of growth and renewal, but a steady, subtle, quiet warmth.
Hephaestus is thinking.
After a moment's observation, however, should anyone spend that long -- it becomes clear that his interest in the flower is in fact a concentration so intense that it seems to infuse the air around him. There is a sense of energy in the earth underfoot: not a crackle of lightnings seeking ground, not a surge of growth and renewal, but a steady, subtle, quiet warmth.
Hephaestus is thinking.