For such a small and oft-disputed country, Belgium has an embarrassment of riches when it comes to art and to history. In our week stay in April, I was able to gorge on Bruegel among other wonders of the northern golden age in two collections: Royal Museum of Fine Arts–Old Masters (Brussels) and Museum Mayer van den Bergh (Antwerp).
I fear that at times, we become so accustomed to viewing representations of great works in books and postcards that once we actually have an opportunity to see the great work itself, we might be disappointed. For example: Stonehenge, where one can frequently hear the comment: “Oh, I thought it was bigger than this.” I’m grateful, though, that my experience of seeing the thing itself–whether Stonehenge or a Bruegel–has been transcendent.
A multitude of visual representations of the Massacre of the Innocents exist, a theme that carries from the early modern period through contemporary western art. The story appears only in the Gospel of Matthew (2:16-18) wherein Herod orders the slaughter of all male children below the age of 2. Bruegel’s representation and those of his son Pieter Brueghel the Younger present a multi-level narrative structure–the Biblical story and a 16th century analog to the presence of Spanish soldiers and their German mercenary compatriots in Flanders. The image is disturbing, haunting–echoing in one’s dreams. (This link Massacre of the Innocents takes you to what is thought to be the original by Bruegel the Elder, housed in the Royal Collection. Take time to magnify and look around the painting.)
Images within the painting that I found disturbing, compelling, soul-jolting (in addition to the killing of infants and the grief of their parents), suggest the complicity of the villagers. There are some village figures who seem to be pointing soldiers toward women and men carrying their children attempting to break away from the chaos.
I’ve recently re-read Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These, a powerful little novel. Bill Furlong runs a moderately successful coal/heating business in a small town in Ireland. The novel is set in 1985, and the local economy is on the skids. Bill is contentedly married and the father of 5 daughters, of whom he is rightly proud. Where Bill sees a need, he commits small acts of kindness like giving spare change to a boy whose father is never sober and never in work. He’s chided by his wife for his acts of kindness (charity begins at home kind of thinking). Bill sees first-hand what’s happening at the local convent’s laundry service–young women, young mothers (sans husbands and abandoned by their families) in servitude, a narrative nod to the Magdalene laundries. The town knows what’s going on, but they turn away from it, congratulating themselves that neither they nor their daughters are there. Bill is warned away from action by the mother superior, by the local publican, by his wife. Nevertheless, on Christmas Eve, Bill helps one of the young women, a girl in dire distress, to escape from servitude, giving her shelter.
Powerful art and powerful literature compel us to evaluate who we are and what we owe to each other. Keegan’s novel and the Bruegel families’ images haunt.
Read more about the Magdalene Laundries here: Magdalene Laundries
Here’s a discussion of Claire Keegan’s novels: Review of Small Things Like These
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