Lloyd Schwartz

A man in a tree, upside-down, hanging by his legs, shaking down pears.

A peasant spread-eagled under a tree—mouth open, snoring, his cod-piece loosened, his 400-year-old cap so thinly painted you can see right through it.

Also under that tree, eight field workers—male and female, young and old, well-fed and rail-thin—munching, sipping, slurping, guzzling, gobbling their noon repast: cheese, porridge, gruel, wine; with a large knife, one carves off a slice of bread from a loaf in a basket.




Scythes sharpened daily.

A distant team of oxen hauling into town a wagon heavy with a barn-size load of wheat.


Fields of wheat.

Hills of wheat.

Distant wheat.

Narrow paths in the wheat.

Two women bearing sheaves on their shoulders and a third—their heads poking out above a narrow path in the wheat.

A man lugging two heavy jugs emerging from a narrow path in the wheat.

Endless wheat.

Bloody games on the village green.

Villagers or field workers swimming—or bathing?—in a pond.

Cows grazing.

Thatched roofs sloping nearly to the ground.

Gables of the village church, uphill from the water’s edge, nearly hidden behind the trees.

Matchstick ships entering and leaving the harbor.

Gray  horizon  dissolving  into  the  distance,  disappearing  into  the  misty distance.

Two birds taking flight, ascending from the wheat.

A man hanging upside down from a tree.

A peasant spread-eagled under a tree, see-through cap and loosened cod-piece—mouth open, snoring.

A pitchfork leaning against the tree.

Resting against the tree.