The Mill and the Cross

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So

So this could be a group of

saints returning from the past

to mourn the present

fate of Flanders.

Yes.

And when the painting is done,

you may have it

if you wish.

Why did you do that?

Don't speak... No.

Line up!

I can't abide by these

high-handed methods.

At times I can barely contain myself.

These foreign mercenaries

in their red tunics

are here to do the bidding of their

Spanish masters who lorded over us.

Every day, their manners remain

a stench in the nostrils.

And an of fence to pride,

to Christian humility

and common sense itself.

I'm a citizen of Antwerp.

A banker of repute.

Collector of paintings.

I'm also a member of the

'Schola Caritatis'.

A brotherhood men of all confessions

without requiring them to abjure.

I believe, and many others in this

magnificent city also believe

that good men of all

confessions can come together

in peace and good understanding.

And...

that is not the opinion

of the king of Spain,

who is also our king, alas.

It is now his pleasure that all

heritage should be put to death.

The men by decapitation,

and the women

women...

I have seen it...

I have seen it all.

My painting will have

to tell many stories.

It should be large enough

to hold everything.

Everything, all the people.

There must be a hundred of them.

I will work like the spider I saw

this morning building its web.

First...

...it finds an anchoring point.

Here, the heart of my web.

Below the grindstone of events

our Saviour is being ground

like grain, mercilessly.

I was shown

our Saviour being led to Golgotha

by the red tunics of the Spanish

militia.

Although he has fallen at

the center of my painting,

I must hide him from the eye.

Why would you want to hide him?

Because he is the most important.

But you might have missed it.

Now if you look here,

Simon is taken away from Esther

to help carry the cross.

And they all look at Simon,

not at the Saviour.

Then there is a mill,

based on a rock.

It is the axis around which all the

people circle between Life and Death.

The miller just stands there,

looking down on everything.

Why have you put him so high up?

In most paintings,

God is shown parting the clouds,

looking down on the

worid in displeasure.

In my painting,

the miller will take his place.

He is the great miller of the Heaven

grinding the bread of

Life and Destiny.

The bread...

The bread is then carried

around by the pedlar

sitting here.

Hoorah!

Here is the city.

It forms a circle within its walls.

The circle of Life.

And next to it is the tree of Life

with fresh leaves.

On the other side is a black circle.

The circle of Death.

It's formed by the crowd gathering

around the execution like flies.

And here below is the tree of Death.

A horse's skull next to it.

And the two men,

You and I.

Nothing is going to happen.

When I think about yesterday,

when he walked into town,

strolled out onto

the Cathedral square

and spoke his mind.

How they listened.

How they cheered.

How enthralled they all were.

Even the soldiers.

And now that we're walking through

the streets in a trance,

the same soldiers who

cheered him yesterday

came out to arrest him last night.

The same crowd that

listened enthralled

has been screaming for

his head all morning.

Nothing was going to happen.

Look at the mother of the

condamned man

and his friends.

Do you remember the

"Adoration of the Magi"?

I did it earlier this year.

My wife served as the model

for the Mother of God.

I'm sure you recognized her.

It was just after she gave

birth to little Peter.

She was such a lusty girl,

womanly, and motherly.

Here she is again,

thirty years later.

Same attitude and same face.

But now the child that

gave her fulness and joy

is taken away.

She's utterly destroyed.

I don't understand.

When he grew up, neighbours

used to tell me

that the decisions of Fate were spelled

out in the fiery letters in the sky.

They alone commanded the seasons.

They would say.

I suppose.

I suppose they really do.

And they also decree who is

to live and who to die.

But he.

My child.

My boy.

Oh, when he was grown

he amazed us all.

It was though he walked unhindered,

straight up to the stony

gates of Heaven.

Plucked all the torches that

light the way up there

night and day,

the fires of Fate,

and swung them laughingly

to the earth.

"I have come to cast fire on you",

he would tell those who came to hear.

"It's in our power to

grasp the fire of Fate"

"in our own hands."

That's what he said.

And then his laughter.

It was so...

He was so...

Agua.

I knew the man.

I myself was there when

he said some of the

things that are now

being held against him.

That he'd tear down the cathedral

and build it anew in three days.

None of us had any

problems with that.

We understood that he was

speaking about reform.

Look.

Just look at that.

They're violating and humiliating

our bodies and souls.

Violating and humiliating

Charity and Virtue.

Our land will be reduced to beggary.

If only time could be stayed.

If it were only brought to a stop.

Then we could wrestle the

senseless moment to the ground,

clearly speak its name to its

face and break its power.

You think you can express this?

Yes.

How?

Now if you look here,

Simon is taken away from Esther

to help carry the cross.

And they all look at Simon.

Not at the Saviour.

Be it the birth of Jesus,

the fall of Icarus

or the death of Saul casting

himself on his sword.

All these worid-changing events

went unnoticed by the crowd.

So just like this spider,

I built my web,

hoping to catch the viewer's eye.

Now the stage is set.

How can I just stand here?

What can I do?

I can't think clearly.

No,

I don't understand.

He was born for a reason.

I knew that from the

day he stirred in me.

And...

...when he grew up

he brought a light into the worid.

And this light threatened the

sly and dark convenience

of our rotten usage and custom.

He was a threat to

every dangerous fool

whose concern is with

neither God nor Man

but with his own miserable

certainties and power.

And now it's dark.

Custom and usage have won the night.

(phrase to write)

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