An image cut in half. On the left side, a figure, sitting in a typically melancholic fashion, head resting on his hands. Eyes lowered. The man reads, but it’s a melancholy-inducing activity. Studying books of lore, especially philosophical, is a guide to undoing. A shortcut to melancholy. The melancholic depicted here resembles another famous allegorical representation of moroseness, as the melancholic state was called when this work was being created. It evokes associations with Albrecht Dürer’s Melencolia I (1514), but it is also evocative of Matthias Gerung’s Melancholy in the Garden of Life (1558). The associative 18th-century Melancholy is rooted in the 16th century. Along with the dog at the melancholic’s feet, with an equally despondent, grim look on its muzzle. But perhaps it’s mere sorrowfulness, without an iota of despair? Just some subtle sadness-inducing contemplation?
Except for its right side, the painting’s melancholic mood would not have been possible. Or would not have been as poignant, at least. Red drapes separate the melancholic from the outside world. This detachment from the landscape with a pond, hills, and houses, amplifies the sense of sadness. An introspective sadness turning its gaze on itself, on reading and reflection, but doing so against the world, going against the grain. But it might have been different: the master sitting on a chair, his head facing the world, his back turned on the bookshelves; the dog, a non-human melancholic, could wallow in water, or roll about on the grass. A sombre mood is set in motion by the very opportunity to look, experience, to deeply sense one’s existence. But perhaps it was never so. After all, a chair overlooking water is strewn with clothes in disarray. Someone must have taken them off, exiting the world of small joys, re-entering their own sensitivity.
Melancholy isn’t all doom and gloom; it can bring delight. In the end, a question remains: how to feel feelings? Which kind? Do you like your own melancholy?
