
Mediterranean Landscape
The whole coast reduced to a few flat zones of color and some quick line. Picasso old, settled in the south, and enjoying himself.

The whole coast reduced to a few flat zones of color and some quick line. Picasso old, settled in the south, and enjoying himself.

Gondolas on water that has shattered into pink, blue and gold. Signac took the divisionist dot to the most painted view in Europe.

Hot pinks and oranges laid on freely, a year before Cézanne and Picasso's Demoiselles sent Braque off toward Cubism instead.

Two elephants carrying obelisks on legs far too spindly to hold them, which is the entire effect and it works.

Green and rose slopes flattened into bold shapes, with rather less interest in what the island actually looked like than in the color.

One puff of steam drifts across a curving shoreline, the modern world putting a small mark on a landscape that had none.

Boats and masts broken into tilting green and brown planes, painted while Braque and Picasso were building Cubism out of Cézanne.

Dalí went back to his own melting watches and broke the ground beneath them into floating bricks, for the atomic age.

Plain village houses on a hillside, built in solid earthy blocks. Pissarro refused to prettify the countryside and gave it structural weight instead.

Travelers go about their day along the road and Fuji sits pale behind them, near and far balanced with Hiroshige's usual quiet.

Three swans on a lake, and in the reflection the necks have become trunks and the trees have become legs.

Masts stand black against a sky going from gold to soft blue, and almost nothing else in the picture is solid.

Peasants and houses rendered as polished metal cylinders. Malevich was three years away from painting a black square and stopping.

Hundreds of tiny figures skating, sledging and falling over on one frozen river. Avercamp was deaf and mute and known as the mute of Kampen.

The hills buckle and heave in the same thick strokes he gave his skies, so that the rock ends up moving too.

Splintered stumps and shell craters under a cold sun, and Nash gave it that title on purpose, as an official British war artist.

Ernst made the eaten-away textures by pressing and lifting paint, working on it while fleeing occupied Europe for America.

The eye sweeps from pines on the cliff across Suruga Bay to Fuji, a whole vista folded into a few flat planes of color.

Marc used yellow for whatever was gentle and joyful, and this cow is kicking its legs out across the hills for the pleasure of it.

Critics at the first Impressionist show in 1874 said it looked like palette scrapings. The furrows are streaked with blue, violet and gold.

June or July from the same series of months, with rakes over shoulders and a girl carrying baskets of cherries toward us.

Not a single figure anywhere in it. Church painted this burning sky in 1860, and people have read the Civil War into it since.

An eye and an ear sprout from a tree and a lizard wears a cap. Miró's Catalan farm has come apart into Surrealism.

Thomas Cole and the poet Bryant stand on a ledge in the Catskills. Durand painted it as a memorial after Cole died young.

Bierstadt went west with a survey expedition and came home with peaks lit like an opera set, which is what the country wanted.

A canvas on an easel shows exactly the landscape it is standing in front of, and therefore hides it completely.

Two pale legs disappear into the sea in the corner while the ploughman keeps ploughing. Auden wrote a poem about exactly that indifference.

The title comes from Baudelaire and the technique from Seurat, but the color is already heading somewhere neither of them went.

Wilderness under storm on the left, farmland in sunshine on the right, and Cole himself down in the middle, tiny, looking up from his easel.

Gaslights along the Arles quay drop long quivering reflections into the water, the Great Bear overhead, a couple walking arm in arm below.


O'Keeffe collected sun-bleached bones off the desert and hung this one in the sky over the hills, with a single white hollyhock beside it.

A single magpie on a gate in deep snow, the shadows tinged blue and violet rather than grey. The Salon turned it down.

Monet painted the same stacks near his house at every hour and season, so that what changes from canvas to canvas is only the light.

Instead of copying idealized Chinese scenery, Jeong Seon walked out and painted a real hill above Seoul with the rain just lifting off it.

Monet dug the pond himself at Giverny, built the Japanese bridge over it, and then painted the place for the rest of his life.

Van Gogh loved the cypress and compared it to an Egyptian obelisk, then set one flaming up the right side of a Provençal field.

An empty pavilion, a few dry trees, no people at all. Ni Zan gave away his estate and spent his last years on a houseboat.

They called him One-Corner Ma. A scholar and a willow occupy one corner and the rest of the silk is left as air.

Three paths run into the wheat and none of them go anywhere. Painted at Auvers in his last weeks, and read too neatly ever since.