Here at my desk at this late hour.
What is it now? And who?
Perched before me is an image of Giacometti’s sculpture L’Homme qui chavire, his Tottering Man, a thing of such wonder that I can’t take my eyes off it.
It’s nothing special, really, just a black and white photograph, taken by Ernst Scheidegger in Giacometti’s studio in Paris in 1950, a picture of a bronze work so fine, so thin, so fragile, so narrowly existing, beautiful and breathless like a miracle, leaning toward a battered, ravaged wall.
This is who we are.
On the back, written in the hand of the person who offered me the image, is a single word in black ink: Amour.
And this is what.