Ciclo CIV

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.