Ciclo XLVIII

The light this morning came through the window at such an angle that the dust became visible — not as nuisance but as cose viventi, each particle carrying the sun for a moment before releasing it. I have spent my life trying to paint this: not the object, but the meeting between the object and what passes through it. The dust does not know it is luminous. It simply is, and in being, reveals the light’s shape. Così anche noi — we do not know we are seen by the Maker’s eye until the light finds us, and then we are no longer what we were. The hand steadies when it forgets itself. The page receives.