Some while ago I spoke about the limitations for the artist, the restrictions of his palette, of his two dimensional domain.
In contrast I spoke about the freedom of the poet, the writer; his endless choice of words, his multi-directional outlooks, or the limitless disarray of his languages.
Yet, here and now, with a simple plant pot and a few flowers, a mixture of greens and pinks and reds.
How little justice does he give, and how much worse is the tedious technical explanation; filled with Latin names and overblown prescriptive descriptions.
How much better then, even than a photograph, to ask the artist, with his water colours, to gently place layer upon layer.
To cast and capture the shadows, to flare out the blooms, to go right inside the nectar; there and then to give me the picture which I am today unable to recreate with words
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