29 November 2007. Gentle November sun. Ripple of water at pavement's edge, green hose snaking through overgrown yard. A verdant intertwining. Songs of innocence, songs of experience. Yesterday: a young man in muted red sarong, his blouse an even deeper red, buttoned all the way to the neck. Small hat, dark in color, carefully placed on a round and forthright head. The dress of somewhere far off--a drift of peoples, each one known to the other, fathers, mothers, sons, pictured in part, at a table, before a window, working in a field. Houses amidst trees, gestures and meanings, lived over time, source of story. "The Human Clay," Kitaj's phrase. Always with a certain dignity--as if the endeavor itself were beyond question, to justify each other, to redeem--each touch, each line, each act...
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