The other book on the still life table is the French dictionary. Because Monsieur Bonnard (mon professeur de peinture) said if I want to talk to him, I had better learn to speak his language.
He’s very strict. (You’d never guess it from the paintings.)
Lights comes through the back of the canvas that’s in the works. The flowers are amorphous and I don’t know how much paint and flower I want — or how much I want the grain of the canvas to be part of the picture’s essence.
All I know is that the ethereal morning light, coming through the back of the canvas, is not a thing to be held and captured.
The morning — I try to find it with my crayon. It hides inside the objects. Light glances through all the spaces. Air from the window winds in quietly. My tea, its steam, finds the currents. Could I chase the tea’s steam — all the forms would be revealed. In the darks of the cloth, like the night sky lightening, and morning in the reflection lands. In a focused beam on the forwardmost surface of a dark blue bottle a nano-image of the sky outside the window beams hard like a diamond.
Captured in the facet, light, all tight and intensely found.
I watch the colors move round. Dial of an earth clock set in colors.