Rievaulx Abbey, Yorkshire 1803

Curator: Alright, let's delve into John Sell Cotman's watercolor, "Rievaulx Abbey, Yorkshire," created in 1803. It presents the skeletal remains of a once-grand abbey. What are your initial thoughts? Editor: Stark beauty, isn't it? There’s a ghostly feel; like wandering through a dream of stone. I see nature asserting itself – vines creeping, stones crumbling. Time devouring everything, essentially. Curator: Precisely. The Romantic movement loved these kinds of ruinscapes, contemplating the transience of human achievement. And, considering Cotman’s interest in pure form, there is also something almost cubist to this composition, especially if you consider the simplified volumes and clear outlines. It almost feels like a very carefully organized arrangement of geometrical shapes. Editor: The arches, certainly, but for me it’s the bovine figures at the base of those once sacred walls. Cows where choirs once sang; so evocative. They become powerful symbols of time's irreverence. Like, “All this? Grass now. Moo.” Curator: Well, you have to remember the Dissolution of the Monasteries under Henry VIII. Rievaulx was surrendered in 1538, then progressively dismantled. A visual metaphor of broken authority. You can almost hear the echoes of hymns mingling with the sound of pickaxes... Editor: What’s brilliant is how Cotman hints at its past splendor. The height of those arches, the suggestion of intricate stonework… it’s not just a ruin, but a memory, an absence given shape by these carefully controlled lines. The Romantic artists, though fixated with ruin, had a keen interest in Medievalism as well. Curator: It really showcases his meticulous skill. The realism combined with the drama! This almost melancholic quietness speaks volumes about the passage of time and perhaps human ambition in general. Editor: And isn't that just the loveliest memento mori, captured in muted watercolor? There is decay, of course, but there's a peculiar peace in letting go. What will remain of our stories once we ourselves have become ruins for cows to admire, I wonder?