I need to write to you about what you will see; to one of you, from all of me. Consider what follows. The illusion is hollow, but it is there for the taking. So much of what I want to make you a part of must come from you. I will make one request, however.
Whatever you do,
don’t
forget the quality of this sunlight.
It was a moment,
and a series of moments.
When
it begins, and
where
it ends;
Imagine you can know.
Was it ambient or reflected?
How did
every
single
thing
it lit upon shine?
Don’t
recreate it.
Don’t
describe it.
Don’t
wait for it to happen again.
Just
don’t
forget it.
Nice to reflect off these same surfaces again
The light will find its way.
On Earth, there is no empty space between you and me, or anything else. The ether does not exist. And, while we are on the subject, neither does the solid object. Everything there is lies between the two. Paintings, more than any other form of communication I know, embody the ability to be two things at once. They are object and image as they see and are seen. They are surface and space. They are allusion and illusion; dialectic and synthesis. Go, look for yourself.