viewing

The light in that room was a glow; I seem to remember the color green, or perhaps flowers. A pale green sheet covered his inert body but not his head, which lay (eyes closed, mouth set in a tense and terrible grimace) unmoving. Gianluca. Barely able to see, barely able to stand - my knees kept buckling _ and breathing so quietly I thought that I, too, might die; that out of shock, I would just drift away, the shell of my body cracking open. No longer anchored by my brother__ love, I would be reabsorbed by sky. Gianluca. If there was never another sound in the world, I would understand _ yes, that would be appropriate, it would be fitting. This was the antithesis of music, the antithesis of noise. My brother__ death seemed to demand silence of all the world. Gianluca.

Ideally a painter (and, generally, an artist) should not become conscious of his insights: without taking the detour through his conscious reflection, his progressive steps, mysterious even to himself, should enter so swiftly into the work that he is unable to recognize them in the moment of transition.

This even doesn't worth and one dollar just for reading and viewing it!