Worlds of Oil: The Mystery of Turner

"It's a Turner."

Identifiable from a good distance away, and pulling me in by a swirl of misty, mesmerizing oil, I found myself standing in front of a Turner yet again-- admiring, loving, embracing the beauty of this painted world. An absolute Turner.

Landscape with Distant River and Bay, Joseph Turner. Musee De Louvre, Paris.

Joseph Turner was known for his expressive use of light and color in landscapes. Particularly, he loved violent seascapes and inviting countryside scenes. He was raw in his depictions of the elements. Like other Romantic artists (including those in music and literature), Turner was more concerned with feeling than with accuracy. He didn't just paint the wind-- he painted how the wind felt. He didn't just paint sunlight, or the rain, or the turbulent sea-- he painted the warmth of England's rare but beloved sun, the mists of Autumn, and the smack of ocean air against your skin and eyes. 

And I suppose that's what gets me about Turner. My mind roams free inside his canvas. The openness of his brushstrokes and generous, dramatic light evoke a mystery and a strange vagueness. And when I look at his paintings, there are no words which come to mind. No critiques, no rambling admiration on technical finesse. Not even a "Wow, that's great." Silence. 

Only feelings.

Turner, too, must have craved the silence. As he got older, his fame and demand increasing, Turner became... different. An eccentric. Despite his large sums of money and renown as an artist, he went on long journeys alone. He had no close friends except for his father. He allowed no one to watch him while he painted. He had serious emotional problems with selling his paintings, normally refusing, but feeling completely dejected whenever he did.

Then one day, Turner suddenly disappeared. After months of searching, he was found hiding out in Chelsea, England. He died the day after he was found. And he left all of his living-- 18,000 pounds and change-- for the "decaying artists" of London.

I think it's haunting how well the oil matches its master. Each of Turner's paintings was its own world to get lost in, as Turner demonstrated himself metaphorically. Deep down, I can't imagine his works being created by any other man than one like Turner. When I catch sight of his paintings, I feel isolated myself.  My emotions draw me into a familiar yet fantastical world in which I and only I live. And briefly. When I leave the frame's direct view, I'm back into my workaday world and words-- the "tiny little prison" of words-- fill my head and cage me in to the world from which I had been set free by Turner.