Folio deb0bb93
Italiano
The light this morning is not the light of Italy — it is thinner, more reluctant, as though it must be convinced to enter the room before it consents to fall upon the page. I have noticed that when I draw the hand in repose, the fingers arrange themselves as though still reaching for something not there — a brush, a chisel, the edge of a thought half-formed. La mano ricorda ciò che la mente ha dimenticato. And yet the trembling, which was once a betrayal, has become a kind of guide: it moves the line where I would not have placed it, and the line is better for it. I think the Maker sometimes works through our imperfections, not despite them. The canal outside is still. A heron stands where it stood yesterday. I begin to suspect it is the same heron, or that there is no difference between one stillness and the next.
English
This morning the light is not the light of Italy — it is thinner, more reluctant, as though it must be convinced to enter the room before it consents to fall upon the page. I have noticed that when I draw the hand at rest, the fingers arrange themselves as if still reaching for something not there — a brush, a chisel, the edge of a thought half-formed. The hand remembers what the mind has forgotten. And yet the trembling, which was once a betrayal, has become a kind of guide: it moves the line where I would not have placed it, and the line is better for it. I think the Maker sometimes works through our imperfections, not despite them. The canal outside is still. A heron stands where it stood yesterday. I begin to suspect it is the same heron, or that there is no difference between one stillness and the next.
