Critics often praise the painter Aldous Reyne for the serenity of his landscapes, but I find that word lazy. Serenity implies a settled calm, and there is nothing settled in Reyne's skies. Look closely at the clouds in his harbor scenes: they are not resting but caught mid-motion, leaning as if a gust is about to scatter them. His stillness is the stillness of a held breath, of a moment that has paused only because it is about to break. To call that serene is to mistake tension for peace.