Hunters in the Snow

Danielle Fleming
Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Hunters in the Snow, 1565

Please use this painting as a holiday card. 
Sincerely, Pieter Bruegel. 

A similar message must have been written on the back of Bruegel's Hunters in the Snow, since nearly every bucket of holiday popcorn is accompanied by this postcard with a message that proclaims A Warm Fire and the Warm Love of a Family, who needs more for Christmas? Nonetheless, Hunters in the Snow, is a masterpiece, but does not necessarily remind me of a warm cup of cocoa. 

As a composition, this piece works beautifully. The fluent slopes of the mountains, combined with the diagonal movement of the trees creates a pleasing peaceful feel. However the pleasantness dissipates with the contrast of the harsh winter overshadowing the presence of man. Although this would seem like a secular piece, Bruegel's signature depth gives a omnipresence sense of spirituality combating the human experience. The overwhelming presence of nature calls attention to the smallness of man. To the point where A Warm Fire and the Warm Love of a Family seems oddly soft for the intensity of this painting. Survival comes to mind before christmas  sentiments, however I suppose that's just as fitting for the holiday period.

The normal concept of subject is lost in this painting, as it is in most of Bruegel's work. The hunters, supposedly the subject, act as a frame for the ice rink behind them. Almost as if the subject itself is the scene, and the hunters behave as a setting, telling the story.

  • 7:00 AM

The Hunters in the Snow

depth
Peter Bruegel, Hunters in the Snow, 1565

My two years in Barstow's Art Hitstory class has exposed me to artists and paintings that have redefined how I look at art. From Modern Art History, we looked at Rothko and the Suprematism movement, which are unlike anything I have ever seen. Truly a "My kid could paint that" moment. Those random lines and shapes placed on the canvas in a disordered fashion, this couldn't really be art?  But it is. Those lines and shapes were not random. The paintings played with space and feelings, attempting to produce emotions from you. The freedom of Modern Art allowed artist to express ideas in ways that pushed the medium to new levels. It taught me how to extract meaning from the ordinary and the extraordinary.

Kasimir Malevich, Supremus No. 58, 1916
Modern Art History took place in my Junior year at Barstow. Heading into my Senior year, Renaissance Art History did not seem all that appealing with the more religious influences and more rigid system of painting. Wrong. Renaissance art is the foundation for all modern art. This is where the classical masters lived. Every chapter was another step, evolving with experience. We could visually see the progress from each period as artist developed concepts of depth, composition, and perspective. The beauty in the classical paintings was analyzing the formal aspects of a painting. It built an understanding for what the artist was up to as he or she applied the paint to the canvas. By practicing this I view all art work differently, formally.

This painting by Peter Bruegel is quite famous, depicting hunters, their dogs, and their town as they make their way over the hills. Hunters in the Snow was the turning point for me in Renaissance Art History. While I already respect art, this painting did something more. The detail found in the depths of this painting are transfixing. Someone can actually get lost in this painting, as in not knowing where you are because of how far you're zoomed in. Not only does he accomplish a landscape that stretches back further than expected, but Bruegel also captures the sensations of this moment. The tones and colors allow you to feel the chilling temperature, the overwhelming amount of white weighing down on you. You feel the struggle to make it over the hill in the way the hunters trudge through. This painting found a special place in my heart. Through my eyes it has no faults. You could take a detailed image on any part of the painting, and it would arguably be strong enough to stand as its own work.

Place all of them together and you get Hunters in the Snow, a masterpiece. Compositionally, Bruegel mastered space, perspective, color, and the canvas itself. He created an image that leaves you wishing it wasn't confined to its two dimensional prison.

  • 7:00 AM

Hunters in the Snow

Aaron Dupuis
Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Hunters in the Snow, 1565

A day and a half come and past. A night spent among the towering skeletons of trees. A night spent in the silent vacuum of winter. A scrawny fox carcass - more fur than food - is all the men have to show for their trouble. 

Not one of the three has spoken since the group turned back. Even the dogs, they notice, don't dare to wimper. The winter has been long. Cold. Deep. Deeper than the snow drifts that now swallow their boots to the brim. The elemental intrusion means little. Their feet are long forgotten. The rise and fall of the earth is all they know. 

Finally they fall no more. The next rise is the last. The sounds of the village drift over the crest of the hill. They forfeit footing for their final flight to the top. Lungs aflame and muscles screaming, the men lift their weary eyes and take in the majesty before them. The valley greets them as it always has. The village below them slips away, voices fade, and for a moment nothing exists. Nothing but the unfeeling spires of the great mountains that line the tiny village. No depth. Only death. 

A raven slices through the frigid air, and lets forth its shrill caw. A sudden gust of wind breaks the still of day. It falters momentarily before diving into the valley.

The man carrying the fox watches as the bird makes its way through the village, winding in and out of buildings, until finally disappearing into the trees. He glances to his left as the aroma of fresh firewood reaches him. A woman scolds her children as they prepare a fire for the feast. To hear her tell it they don't have a brain in their head, nor muscle in their bodies. Slowly a smile makes its way across his face. Her words hide love. 

The feast. It was intended to be the game his party had caught. However, that amounted to the single fox that now swung to and fro from his back with each step he took. The village had expected more than this. He had as well. No matter. They would put something together. Neighbors would provide for one another. More a feast than ever. A communion. 

He makes his way down the slope and through the village past the frozen lakes where friends and family spin and twirl. Again, a smile. Maybe he would skate tomorrow. His first time this year. But first he must go home. Waving, nodding, calling out, he makes his way through the town, past the church, and onto the wooded road to his home by the stream. Through the trees he sees his son playing on the ice. The boys laughter floats gently to his ears. A gentle plume of smoke rises from the chimney. Warmth washes over him. 

High above the birds have retaken the sky, but the ravens will not rest here tonight.


  • 7:00 AM