21 June 2007. Longest day, shortest night. Sunny and clear. Yesterday evening: cold wind off the bay, raking the length of San Pablo. A few late diners at the Little Hong Kong, headlights zipping by, gold and white. Stories to Emio, the camera running. To take something with so little apparent value--a small square of cardboard--and to redeem it with meaning... As told to Nathaniel and Stephanie, a week before: the flood of divine light, breaking of the vessels, shards fall to earth, amidst which the sparks--to discover them, return them to their maker. No language for this, just a wash of muted color, then another--eddies and striations, everything the world would want to be. A kind of theater, perhaps, the quality of one tone against another, slight roughness of an edge. "Not too perfect," that was Lars' phrase, years ago, as he worked on a drawing, taking up a small eraser and easing back on a line--blurring it a little, an accident or two... The way of the world...
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