- The man is rooted in its reading position, the forehead worried. He is a deposed kind.
I remember how much I had to resign to my task to brave its theme. Then the brush touching the linen on and on, thin and persevering, was marrying with the veins of the leaves and it was playing, shy and patient, with the droplets of light fallen from the imaginary sky. The colors become friends were taming my embarrassment, were accepting my inspirations.
- What remains out of the stone faces, feeling calm at last under the ivy curtains, turns its back on him.
I wanted to act without any complaisance; as soon as its image was forecasted behind my eyes, I knew that the painting would be hard to make, and I believed in the necessity for this crudeness.
Sometimes several centuries of patience happen within a single session of painting. This minuscule gesture, insignificant after all, but repeated so many times that it concedes forgiveness eventually. Several centuries of patience and the beast, painting the beast, mothers the beauty, becomes the beauty, turns around.
Suddenly the opposites calm down and blend, the time stops and the man reads.
- A book; a red one, a book about love. A book that tells everything, that theorizes it. A book that knows everything, that is wrong obviously. Who am I? My story, the mirror over which I'm leaning. The complaisant autobiography of King Narcissus, written and read, burned since then.
Below is the original study I made back then, when I was conceptualizing the scene. Statues where meant to be spattered with blue paint, and the hand of the man to be dripping with blue paint as well. I realized that it would not fit well with the ancient, spirituous mood of the old stones and lush.