After writing about art at the Guardian for 30 years, I have been asked by my editor to reflect on what I have learned. I am not sure I’m capable of doing that. What I can do is write about what I have seen. Even when you are an eyewitness, things get murky very quickly, and critics are among the most unreliable of narrators.
An unknown woman at a table writes a letter we can’t see, while her maid reacts to something beyond the painted window. We can’t see what she’s smiling at either. How is it that Vermeer’s 1670-71 Woman Writing a Letter, With Her Maid, makes me feel somehow privy to its intimacies when almost everything that matters is withheld? You have to make it up. The stories come barging in, something you can’t quite imagine happening in such an ordered world.
