We talked of fishing in the Loire...when?
“Tomorrow,” I suggested.
“It’s tomorrow now,” he said, laughing.
“How time gets away from us.”
“Maturina will be rattling the breakfast dishes soon.”
“Then you had better get some sleep.”
“Good night, Mon Père,” Francesco said, and laughed that good laugh of his.
So, you won’t paint again! Where you are going you won’t hear the pestle grinding pigment. How insignificant my sketches, my trees, faces, water...as a boy I thought every sketch would open up the world a little more.
It was only a month ago I made the four small bronze horses, moulded the graceful contours of Andrea’s face...it was only a year ago that...