Vermeer often defied its great expense,
offering pale-bright hue to mere chair back,
sharing value of insignificance,
engraining it deep in off-white walls’ cracks
and tints so subtly only microscopes
discover its minute globes. Consider
his girl with wineglass, how shyly she copes
with her admirer’s urging, edge of her
flecked wooden seat nearly lost from our sight
controlled by dominant white of their cuffs,
collars, flowing table towel. That might
be himself, bored in left corner, sly stuff
of great artists to hide within our view,
fist blocking face, denying light its due.
Roger Armbrust
August 8, 2010
