Tonight, with words, I construct a diagram of what I experience: the quiet of night deepening, a full stomach, voices in sharp discussion in the street.
Language is the form, words the shape, the signs and symbols we have all agreed indicate one thing.
In fact, I am only an image, a drawing, as Yves Bonnefoy wrote in a study of Giacometti, by which I deprive myself of being fully present to myself and to the whole.
Everyone and everything is a drawing I make.
To not do so – to step back from simply harnessing the descriptive power of words and forms – is to recognize self and other as more than a simple image.
That’s why I drew two trees in my notebook yesterday, their bare branches throwing long shadows onto the sidewalk outside the window in the brilliant sunlight before noon. The study of dark and light revealed everything unraveling in the meanwhile.