The museum fell silent
I can only just recall that first visit to his home. He was not there—being some several years dead—but the house was intact. A white exterior led to a dark vestibule. To the right, a studio was still arranged with his belongings. The impressions that the mind retains are unpredictable. A green bottle from which water was poured into glasses on a silver tray. A yellow window with the blue of the sea outside. A sense of discomfort that lessened only slightly after time. Yet the house itself held something more intractable, the feeling of a party that had long since ended.
