“The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something,
and tell what it saw in a plain way.”
John Ruskin
I was at the Glasgow art gallery
today and found myself returning to an old painting I liked as a teenager — The
Poor Being Fed at a Monastery by the 17th-century Dutch artist Thomas
Wijck. It hangs there still, mostly unnoticed by the crowds that drift through
the gallery, eyes flicking from frame to frame, as if trying to take in the
entire history of art before the afternoon coffee break.
The painting doesn’t demand
attention. It sits quietly, modest in tone, another “dull Dutch master” to the
untrained eye. But there’s something in it that’s always held me — something
that once stopped a teenage boy in his tracks and still calls him back decades
later.
As I stood studying it again, I
noticed how many people passed it by. Most didn’t slow down. It’s easy to miss.
The colours are muted, the scene ordinary. But then, that’s the point.
I saw a young man approaching —
young enough to still be shaped by moments like these — and I caught his eye
just before he moved on. I simply said, “Look at this,” and pointed to a detail
I had just been admiring: the figures at the foot of the monastery steps.
Wijck’s attention to detail is
striking. The monks, serene and composed, are calmly giving out bread. The poor
gather in varied postures — some with uplifted faces, others bent low, a
legless man who pushes himself around in a tin bath — each figure rendered with
a humanity that stops short of sentimentality. There’s gratitude, certainly.
But there’s also fatigue. Hesitation. Even something like shame. The dignity of
the recipients is not diminished by their need — and the act of giving, while
central, is not made heroic.
The young man leaned in, intrigued.
I said no more and walked on. I don’t know what he saw in it. Maybe nothing.
Maybe something he’ll remember in a few years when life brings him closer to
the quiet themes in that painting: hunger, humility, and the fragile grace of
being cared for.
I’m not sharing this to paint
myself as someone wise or perceptive. If anything, it was the painting that did
the work. I just happened to notice it — and then, for a brief second,
helped someone else notice it too.
That’s what I keep thinking about.
How much there is to see when we slow down. How much we miss when we don’t. In
a world of fast answers and glowing screens, noticing — really noticing
— might be one of the most human things left to do.
On Noticing
“The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something,
and tell what it saw in a plain way.”
John Ruskin
I was at the Glasgow art gallery today and found myself returning to an old painting I liked as a teenager — The Poor Being Fed at a Monastery by the 17th-century Dutch artist Thomas Wijck. It hangs there still, mostly unnoticed by the crowds that drift through the gallery, eyes flicking from frame to frame, as if trying to take in the entire history of art before the afternoon coffee break.
The Poor Being Fed at a Monastery | Art UK
The painting doesn’t demand attention. It sits quietly, modest in tone, another “dull Dutch master” to the untrained eye. But there’s something in it that’s always held me — something that once stopped a teenage boy in his tracks and still calls him back decades later.
As I stood studying it again, I noticed how many people passed it by. Most didn’t slow down. It’s easy to miss. The colours are muted, the scene ordinary. But then, that’s the point.
I saw a young man approaching — young enough to still be shaped by moments like these — and I caught his eye just before he moved on. I simply said, “Look at this,” and pointed to a detail I had just been admiring: the figures at the foot of the monastery steps.
Wijck’s attention to detail is striking. The monks, serene and composed, are calmly giving out bread. The poor gather in varied postures — some with uplifted faces, others bent low, a legless man who pushes himself around in a tin bath — each figure rendered with a humanity that stops short of sentimentality. There’s gratitude, certainly. But there’s also fatigue. Hesitation. Even something like shame. The dignity of the recipients is not diminished by their need — and the act of giving, while central, is not made heroic.
The young man leaned in, intrigued. I said no more and walked on. I don’t know what he saw in it. Maybe nothing. Maybe something he’ll remember in a few years when life brings him closer to the quiet themes in that painting: hunger, humility, and the fragile grace of being cared for.
I’m not sharing this to paint myself as someone wise or perceptive. If anything, it was the painting that did the work. I just happened to notice it — and then, for a brief second, helped someone else notice it too.
That’s what I keep thinking about. How much there is to see when we slow down. How much we miss when we don’t. In a world of fast answers and glowing screens, noticing — really noticing — might be one of the most human things left to do.