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On the low canvas stool, the painter squats before his easel and sketch book, the brushes and colour-wheel alternately clutched and balanced in his free hand while the other hand scurries back and forth like a rodent in late autumn laying in store then, dashes back for more to fill his thirsty brush with a touch of this ochre and a dab of that darkening and a twinkle of this lightening and a swirl of rushed sennet and a burnt line of russet and a skylight of faerie-tones and a splash of cobalt and a dash of chlorophyll and a golden tint and an aquamarine hue and a value for umbra and a greyness and a whiteness and a greatness and a love and a transcendence and an elevation and proportion and eloquence and nostalgic celebration and then the light begins to fail and he gathers his meagre sticks and canvas and brushes and easel and sketched universe and trudges his glad way home. He stops momentarily to peek at his captive vision. His steps lengthen. Night falls. He would light a lamp. |
