I want you to imagine something with me. Imagine we’re at a sparkling lake. Someone is fishing — perhaps even you. Definitely not I, but someone is. He or she is casting a fishing line. Can you see it? Slow it down now in your thought. Play it in slow motion like a film in your mind. It’s the part of the movie with the most enchanting music.
And as the fisher casts the line, we see it — and hear it — suspended in the air. We see the filament unraveling the air, bending with a most exquisite grace, bending backward, reaching forward, as though alive. It propells forward. It straightens slightly. It catches up its own elegance into graceful curves. It stretches out into space. The filament cuts into the air. Molecules slip out of its path. And it seems like a little eternity that it just hangs there, loose and reaching, ever reaching and finding. It is a completely sure and true spectacle of beauty.
It is pure linearity.
Hold the thought of it a minute like holding a breath.
That, friends, is what Monet’s drawing is like. Hidden inside his notebook — like a graphite treasure of simplicity and wisdom — in his unprepossessing carnet, are these lines that drop onto the page endowed with resilient freedom.
Cast your thoughts upon the vacant air, and they will look something like a Monet line. See the plain daylight fall into the pond’s depths, see that the reflections are lines like these, thought lines that catch a living reality.
Now that’s a fine, plump fish indeed.