You dream too much. It takes you all morning to clear your head, find the right words, think pragmatically. Much of your life has been spent dreaming and yet you couldn't tell. A dog yawning, stretching, shaking off the night's lingering presence, does a better job of it.
How many hours? If God hadn't invented windows we'd all be atheists by now.
Venice is the dream of winter; Venice is the perfume of the East deep into the forest. Turner, sitting at home, dreams of a white landscape drained of all the faint and weak colours just a moment before he paints it. Turner's anti-intellectual love of white. The blank spaces of our hearts. He speaks kindly by pluralizing...
Venice, 1819. The web of colour, refracted, reflected, filling out the space. From now on in the western mind the sensation of colour, the last note of music, is the door to perception. fine colour must reflect our sense of values..The state of ecstasy..of a fine colourist is something on the borderline between dream and reality.
A man in his last year of life works to find the perfect blue. This man from Murano, who is forbidden to leave the island, dreams of Venice for a second and finds a bridge. The steps I walk in are the only time I've got. Left my heart a long time ago.
He walks across a bridge and realizes he can't find it again, or it's there, floating above the mist, in another life that is not his.
"The perfect blue," she said, "when our heartbeats were one".
How many hours? If God hadn't invented windows we'd all be atheists by now.
Venice is the dream of winter; Venice is the perfume of the East deep into the forest. Turner, sitting at home, dreams of a white landscape drained of all the faint and weak colours just a moment before he paints it. Turner's anti-intellectual love of white. The blank spaces of our hearts. He speaks kindly by pluralizing...
Venice, 1819. The web of colour, refracted, reflected, filling out the space. From now on in the western mind the sensation of colour, the last note of music, is the door to perception. fine colour must reflect our sense of values..The state of ecstasy..of a fine colourist is something on the borderline between dream and reality.
A man in his last year of life works to find the perfect blue. This man from Murano, who is forbidden to leave the island, dreams of Venice for a second and finds a bridge. The steps I walk in are the only time I've got. Left my heart a long time ago.
He walks across a bridge and realizes he can't find it again, or it's there, floating above the mist, in another life that is not his.
"The perfect blue," she said, "when our heartbeats were one".
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