(Vertaling / Translation) Dennis O'Driscoll A Bowl of Cherries I While, granted, life may not be a bowl of cherries on the whole, Osias Beert gave literal expression to the more upbeat view in his sixteen hundred and something painting, Still Life with Cherries. Its glow – a wood-burning stove – caught my eye in Stockholm one harbour-stiffening winter. Long-spired churches sniffed the icy air; berries were served on branches like arctic cherries. Silhouetted pine trees shivered; their saw-toothed outlines chattered in raw snow. II Although the season of cherries is brief, the painter set aside his griefs to let joy have its way, each puff-cheeked fruit in its first flush of youth, a trumpet-blowing cherub; the roe of some exotic species plucked from juice, not brine; the rods and cones of the sun’s eye. The painter’s plate is full now and he is satisfied with his lot even if the rot will set in soon and the freshness is pure deception lasting no longer than cherry blossoms tossed on snow when north winds are enjoying their final fling. III There are times, his painting seems to say – and this is one of them – when, despite all evidence to the contrary, life is (and no denying it) a bowl of cherries. Just look at this picture: so rich a crop that some have dropped off the edge like coins spilt from a collection plate. And, though Osias may be far off the mark where truth (whatever about beauty) is concerned, the cherries – bite-size apples – tempt with their own improbable knowledge and the cold viewer’s eyes helplessly assent. © Dennis O'Driscoll