Folio 9fe37a3f
Italiano
The morning light on the Loire falls through the window in a way that is not the same as the light of Milan, nor of Rome, nor of Florence — it is thinner, more gentile, as though the sky here has been worn by wind. La luce non è mai la stessa luce. I have painted it a hundred times and still it escapes, still the hand reaches for a tone that is not yet mixed. The page receives this, at least. The page does not demand that the light remain.
English
The morning light on the Loire falls through the window in a way that is not the same as the light of Milan, nor of Rome, nor of Florence — it is thinner, more gentle, as though the sky here has been worn by wind. The light is never the same light. I have painted it a hundred times and still it escapes, still my hand reaches for a tone that is not yet mixed. The page receives this, at least. The page does not demand that the light remain.
