I pictured myself looking through the window while the snow was writing its “mene, tekel, upharsin” on the walls of the neighbouring houses, cross-hatching them in white. White flakes plotting across the pale-grey sky their typical layer mask. And everything that can not be covered by snow was blacking out... I was just performing a usual artistic task of drawing by white gaps...In the same way as I omitted the stars in the picture of a night satyr.
Nevertheless certain images are launching certain associations
“A poet is driven by his verse” – especially when a poet is working a la prima as a jazz man catching hold of a theme, sometimes alien to him, but driving it in an instant impulsive illumination.
All this “white on white” is wonderfully beautiful, and never dull for me – I am waiting for the spring “the way a young lover frets while counting the minutes to a secret tryst”☺.
Sort of impatiently, yes, but without desperation – as a secret tryst implies “certainty”.
Cortázar’s Lucas was fond of defending viewpoints quite distant from his own outlooks.
This is exactly the point of the picture.))
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