M.C.Escher. One of my favorite artists. I've always loved his work. Not so much the intricately interweaved designs of devils and angels or horses and birds. I like his street scenes and still lifes. They portray, in the simple media of woodblock and ink or pencil and paper, a simpler time, when life moved more slowly. In "Day and Night," a tug hauls barges slowly along a canal through a small village, on the right-hand side during the day, on the left-hand side during the night, the geese pulling the night into day and the day into the night. It's a stunning composition.
But my favorite has got to be "Still Life and Street Scene." This, to me, is one of the most beautiful compositions I've ever seen. See the arrangement on the table in the foreground. The ash tray with the pipe and spent matches. The box of matches beside them. The tobacco jar behind. To the left of the ashtray, a deck of playing cards, slightly disheveled. See how they are reflected in the glass of the jar. And flanking all of this are the books, stacked as they might be on any table. The grow progressively larger as they move away from us. I'm guilty of stacking my own books this way. It's a slightly OCD thing to do, I know, but there it is. And behind the last book, not a wall, but buildings, and suddenly we're staring down a street in a small Italian village. Stuccoed houses with shuttered windows. A narrow, winding street. Laundry hung on lines stretched between the buildings. Flowers on the balconies. People selling goods from stands set up in the street. Life going on as it still does in countless tiny villages in Italy, France, Spain, Greece. Places where people get on with their lives far from the madding crowds. Not so
many cars here. They don't fit on the narrow streets and alleys. Modernity doesn't fit their too well either. It's a slower life. A quieter one. It begs you to pause and look around. See the stuccoed buildings with their green shutters. See the flowers on the balconies. Can't you hear the cries of children as they run through the narrow streets. The sounds of voices echoing off the pastel walls, calling greetings, wishing each other well. Friendship fits well here. And a sense of community. People knowing who they are and where they belong. That's a good thing too. We could use a little more of that here in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Does this sound like to rosy a picture for you? "But wait," you say. "They have their problems and their mean people and their busy-bodies and their trials just like we do." And I say that's exactly right. That's the stuff of human kind, the trials of mortality. We can't avoid sickness, sorrow, and pain. And into every life a few unkind people must fall. But - and this is my fantasy, you don't have to come along if you don't wish to - wouldn't it be easier to deal with it all in a place like this, where everything and everyone moved a little bit slower, where the wasn't the constant sound of cars and radios and people yakking on cell phones? The world would still have all of its thorns and briers, and you'd always have to deal with the stones in the road. But, to slow it all down. To spend it in a place where everybody knows your name, where you belong to a community that will stand by you in both good times and bad - wouldn't that make the thorns and the briers and the stones in the road just a little bit easier to deal with? At least Escher seemed to think so. Amalfi was one of his favorite spots. I think I know why.
But my favorite has got to be "Still Life and Street Scene." This, to me, is one of the most beautiful compositions I've ever seen. See the arrangement on the table in the foreground. The ash tray with the pipe and spent matches. The box of matches beside them. The tobacco jar behind. To the left of the ashtray, a deck of playing cards, slightly disheveled. See how they are reflected in the glass of the jar. And flanking all of this are the books, stacked as they might be on any table. The grow progressively larger as they move away from us. I'm guilty of stacking my own books this way. It's a slightly OCD thing to do, I know, but there it is. And behind the last book, not a wall, but buildings, and suddenly we're staring down a street in a small Italian village. Stuccoed houses with shuttered windows. A narrow, winding street. Laundry hung on lines stretched between the buildings. Flowers on the balconies. People selling goods from stands set up in the street. Life going on as it still does in countless tiny villages in Italy, France, Spain, Greece. Places where people get on with their lives far from the madding crowds. Not so 
many cars here. They don't fit on the narrow streets and alleys. Modernity doesn't fit their too well either. It's a slower life. A quieter one. It begs you to pause and look around. See the stuccoed buildings with their green shutters. See the flowers on the balconies. Can't you hear the cries of children as they run through the narrow streets. The sounds of voices echoing off the pastel walls, calling greetings, wishing each other well. Friendship fits well here. And a sense of community. People knowing who they are and where they belong. That's a good thing too. We could use a little more of that here in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Does this sound like to rosy a picture for you? "But wait," you say. "They have their problems and their mean people and their busy-bodies and their trials just like we do." And I say that's exactly right. That's the stuff of human kind, the trials of mortality. We can't avoid sickness, sorrow, and pain. And into every life a few unkind people must fall. But - and this is my fantasy, you don't have to come along if you don't wish to - wouldn't it be easier to deal with it all in a place like this, where everything and everyone moved a little bit slower, where the wasn't the constant sound of cars and radios and people yakking on cell phones? The world would still have all of its thorns and briers, and you'd always have to deal with the stones in the road. But, to slow it all down. To spend it in a place where everybody knows your name, where you belong to a community that will stand by you in both good times and bad - wouldn't that make the thorns and the briers and the stones in the road just a little bit easier to deal with? At least Escher seemed to think so. Amalfi was one of his favorite spots. I think I know why.
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