A few years ago—three to be exact—I mused in this space about Chiaroscuro, the artistic technique that makes strong use of the contrast between light and dark. It’s a visibly arresting technique that impacts not just a particular object in a scene, but the entire composition of a canvas, often giving a painting or a photograph focus a sense of volume—three dimensions on a two-dimensional surface. Leonardo da Vinci, Rembrandt, and Caravaggio were all masters of the chiaroscuro technique; so, too, were Reubens, Velásquez, Vermeer, and many others. Their use of harsh, dramatic light served to isolate the subjects of their paintings and heighten the emotional tension of their themes. Want to see what I mean? Just Google Caravaggio’s “The Deposition of Christ” or Vermeer’s “Girl with a Pearl Earring” to visually experience the full impact of the chiaroscuro technique.
But if you really think about it, chiaroscuro is all around us, all the time; it’s an inherent part of our lives. Chiaroscuro is not simply an artist’s use of the contrast between light and dark; it represents the eternal jostling of good and evil, reason and belief, joy and grief, even life and death. It depicts all the opposing forces, the yins and yangs, that combine to create the whole cloth of our individual universes. Even a carefree snapshot of family members gathered around a cell phone gives evidence of the twin towers of light and darkness that rule our lives.
Without a good dose of chiaroscuro, the surfaces of our lives would be sadly flat. Without darkness, we can’t experience light. Without cold, we can’t appreciate heat. While we may sometimes rue the duality of life, without it, we would be nothing more than stick figures on scratch paper. We need shade and depth to be human.
A few days ago, all these thoughts came rushing back as I watched the events unfolding in western Pennsylvania. Although we may not know it yet, it seems to me that we’re on the road to Megiddo, a city in northern Israel built on a tell, a high hill created by many generations of people and civilizations all living on the same spot. Its Biblical name was Armageddon and according to the Book of Revelation, it will mark the place of the end of days when the forces of light and dark, good and evil, will collide in one final cataclysmic confrontation.
When I set out to write this Musing, I had my mind’s eye fixed on the benign family photograph that accompanies this piece. My intention was to title the piece “Screen Time” and to muse about how we’re all addicted to our various electronic devices. But this morning, I looked at this same photograph and saw only its inherent chiaroscuro, a road sign pointing the way to Megiddo. I know it’s impossible to rewind time, but yesterday is gone and I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. The future is built on sand, and the tide, predictable as it may be, can change the shape of the shoreline in a heartbeat.
Or a grazed ear.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine.
His new novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon
Karen Conley Kallmyer says
You are GOOD!!