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Andrew H. Oerke Mary of Chartres Mary’s glass is chunky as homemade popsicle cubes seen through bifocals. Who’s to say I’m wrong? Except it’s bluer. Paul Cézanne’s blue angles made bathers look like angels in a Cubist web of gems he dug from deep in his mental mine, where hordes of sapphires bubbled like little blue lamps. These jewels are invisible till lugged to the surface, are cut and polished, and set, like stained glass in windows. Mary stole the rainbow’s wave-lengths and spread them around at Chartres. In “The Bathers,” Cézanne caught a fishy lapis light, sliced it up, and cooked it in a robin’s-egg-blue chowder. Mix in powder of copper and Shakespeare’s cauldron bubbles. Then the Good Witch of the South, dressed in tanzanite robes, swipes the retina softly, staining us to aquamarine bright as coral beaches with a turquoise bias, that can be glimpsed by worshippers and watchers who know there are no limits to space and somewhere everything will run on time. Someday her cobalt-blue will fly us home. |