One of the château gardeners, a Venetian, who has been very friendly with me, has presented me with a caged oriole. In a woven reed cage, painted black.
Black!
I carried the cage outdoors, into the morning mist; I set it down. The bird fluttered, trembled. How long had it been captive? I knelt. I could see where he had chipped off black paint with his beak.
Black!
I opened the door.
A male, he battered the reeds with all his strength, found the opening, and hurtled into the sky.
I have forgotten more than I can recall: perhaps this is true of most of us who have lived a long life. Many of the things I have forgotten I have wished to forget. I find it hard to live and harbor grudges, but it is also lack of wisdom to erase the mind; then it may be necessary to experience our mistakes again: that’s being trapped twice; a fox avoids that.
As for survival, I have survived because I found something to discover: discovery is the key: new sinew, new mineral, new color, new face, new canal, new lamp.
In Andrea’s studio I discovered perspective. There is so much about perspective that eludes one—a continual challenge.