Rebecca Nemser

In a dark, smoky room, a soli­tary dancer rais­es up her arm in a tense, ecsta­t­ic move­ment of inspi­ra­tion; her oth­er hand clutch­es the skirt of her dress — a flash of white light gleam­ing in the dark. You can almost hear the rhyth­mic weep­ing of the gui­tars; you can almost feel beat­ing of the dancer’s tumul­tuous heart.

I loved THE CONCERT, the beau­ti­ful lit­tle paint­ing by VERMEER. Each time I looked at it, I saw some­thing new. Now it’s gone. I try to remem­ber every line, every shad­ow, every gleam of light, every sweet cadence of its silent music, but I can already feel it fad­ing. As time goes by, it will dark­en and grow dim.