“Sand as far as the eye can see, between the last hills and the sea – the sea – in the cold air of an afternoon almost past, and blessed by the wind that always blows from the north.
The beach. And the sea.
It could be perfection — an image for divine eyes — a world that happens, that’s all, the mute existence of land and water, a work perfectly accomplished, truth –truth — but once again it is the redeeming grain of a man that jams the mechanism of that paradise, a bagatelle capable on its own of suspending all that great apparatus of inexorable truth, a mere nothing, but one planted in the sand, an imperceptible tear in the surface of that sacred icon, a minuscule exception come to rest on the perfection of that boundless beach. To see him from afar he would be no more than a black dot: amid nothingness, the nothing of a man and a painter’s easel. The easel is anchored by slender cords to four stones placed on the sand. It sways imperceptibly in the wind that always blows from the north. The man is wearing waders and a large fisherman’s jacket. He is standing, facing the sea, twirling a slim paintbrush between his fingers. On the easel, a canvas.”