by Scott Samuelson

Studying in Leipzig back in 1993, I took the train down to Dresden and visited the Old Masters Picture Gallery. As I meandered among the masterpieces, I was stopped in my tracks by Johannes Vermeer’s Young Woman Reading a Letter by an Open Window. The droplets of light on her braids. Her ringlets of loose hair. The almost-touchable texture of the tapestry. The almost-smellable bowl of fruit. The mysterious green curtain. Her face engrossed in the end of the letter. Her blurred reflection on the windowpane. I ended up gawking at the painting so long I missed my train back.

Right now, at the Frick Collection in New York, people the world over are crowding into an exhibit called “Vermeer’s Love Letters,” featuring three exquisite portraits by the master on his favorite theme (I first wrote “only three”—but that’s nearly ten percent of his work!). Vermeer shows are always a sensation. I still remember the excitement I shared in early 1996 with the line of museumgoers waiting in the cold to see the once-in-a-lifetime exhibit at the National Gallery in Washington D.C., which gathered twenty-one of his thirty-five paintings.

How have Vermeer’s paintings come to entrance the world? Why is that painting in Dresden—alas, not in the Frick show—still my absolute favorite over thirty years later? What are Vermeer’s love letters trying to tell us?

A couple of years ago, I had an experience that revealed to me the secret of our fascination with his paintings. It took place at Terminal One in O’Hare—at Stefani’s Tuscany Café. But before I unveil the mystery (at least as far as I’ve been given to understand it), let me say a quick word about light. Read more »