...they are places that don't belong to geography but time. Saul Steinberg, Reflections and Shadows
For Barrie, who understood, and for Oliver and Alistair and Mollie
The catamaran, its blue-patched sails no longer flapping, its nets full of glistening catch, came in after the night's fishing
He knew nothing about art but even he could see the astonishing things that were conjured up by her hands. They were the hands of a magician. Like shadow puppets they illuminated other dimensions of the world, probing the edges of things and those corners where drifts of light revealed all that had been concealed from him until now.
You may say this is a little ridiculous of me. To come all this way back home to pain with grey? But, grey has no agenda. And that's what really interests me. Its neutrality.
Bone-white and beautiful and all that remained of her home.
Only in Rohan's paintings, strange, elegiac and ghostly, could it be glimpsed. Threadbare like a carpet, all his memories showed in his pictures with a transparency that Giulia found at times unbearable.
Somehow it had never happened. The small difficulties, the shifts and changes in their relationships, all the minutiae of everyday, had made her reluctant to disturb the past.
And all around, between sea and sky and land, was the gentle sound of lapping water as the sun, golden and full of autumn warmth, sank softly into the reeds.