
Composition VIII
Circles, triangles and floating lines arranged with the precision of a score. Kandinsky painted it while teaching at the Bauhaus, his storms over.

Circles, triangles and floating lines arranged with the precision of a score. Kandinsky painted it while teaching at the Bauhaus, his storms over.

Soft-edged bands of color stacked one above another, hovering slightly off the surface. Rothko wanted you to stand close and stay a while.

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

Black skeins and floating patches of color with nothing recognizable in it at all. Kandinsky thought painting could work on you like music.

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.

The laundress bears down on her iron with her shoulders up and her head sunk, all in the cold blue of Picasso's poorest years.

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

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

A train crosses the sky upside down, a man drifts past on a parachute, and the cat on the sill has a human face.

Marie-Thérèse asleep with her head on her arms, the angular violence of Cubism gone soft and curved for a few years.

Cézanne cared less who the man was than whether the head would hold together as structure, and the slight asymmetries keep it alive.

Naked conscripts showering in a barracks under a mounted officer, painted after the army service that broke Kirchner down.

Moustached men in striped jerseys leap for a ball among autumn trees, playing the new game of rugby as though it were slow ritual.

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

A woman in a white corset seen from behind, painted so loosely the picture seems to stop just before the image settles.

A man and a white horse in a Tahitian grove, painted on Gauguin's first stay, flat and warm and looking for a paradise.

A regiment posed around its cannon like a group photograph that has gone charmingly rigid. Rousseau was a customs officer painting in his spare time.

The Bauhaus grids and circles have given way to floating amoebas. Kandinsky in Paris at the end, inventing a biology instead.