falling body on water
But this is painting. This is painting. The detail, the whole, the volume. The values, the composition, the frisson, everything is in it. Just listen, it is terrific. What are we? Close your eyes, wait; stop thinking about anything. Open them. Well? All you perceived is a large colored undulation, an iridescence, colors, a richness of colors. This is what a picture should give us first, a harmonious warmth, an abyss, into which the eye is plunged, a muted germination. A colored state of grace. All these tints flow in your blood, don’t they? One feels reinvigorated. One is born into the real world. One becomes oneself; one becomes painting. To love a picture, you first have to have drunk it thus, in long draughts, to lose consciousness, to go down with the painter to the dark, tangled roots of things, to ascend again with the colors, to blossom out into the light with them. To know how to see. To feel. Look, this one was happy. And he makes all those who understand him happy. Things, beings, entered into his soul with the sun, without anything separating them from the light for him, without drawing, without abstractions, all in color.