For some reason, the sight of snow descending on fire always makes me think of the ancient world — legionaries in sheepskin warming themselves at a brazier: mountain altars where offerings glow between wintry pillars; centaurs with torches cantering beside a frozen sea — scattered, unco-ordinated shapes from a fabulous past, infinitely removed from life; and yet bringing with them memories of things real and imagined. These classical projections, and something in the physical attitudes of the men themselves as they turned from the fire, suddenly suggested Poussin’s scene in which the Seasons, hand in hand and facing outward, tread in rhythm to the notes of the lyre that the winged and naked greybeard plays. The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings, facing outwards like the Seasons, moving hand in hand in intricate measure: stepping slowly, methodically, sometimes a trifle awkwardly, in evolutions that take recognisable shape: or breaking into seeminly meaningless gyrations, while partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps, to control the steps of the dance. Anthony Powell
About This Quote

In “The Seasons,” by the artist Peter Paul Rubens, a man and a woman are seen standing in a garden. The man is dressed in a dark robe while the woman wears a white gown. The man is holding a lyre and while he plays he seems to be looking at the woman. They have their hands so close to each other that they seem to be dancing.

In the background, other figures can be seen walking toward them from different directions. At first, it appears as if these other figures are going to interrupt the couple but eventually they all begin to move in unison with the couple. The whole effect of this painting is peaceful and harmonious; it has something of the feeling of the dance steps which people take in unison with each other when they move in time with music.

Source: A Question Of Upbringing

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