Where the trees form a shady recess, embedded in the meadow, it reflects the sky.

It does not circumscribe the perimeter of a glance, it fits into the visual field like a clear straight line. Blue, when the sky is, turning to silver when sailing, it appears so subtle as to allude to the progressive masses of clouds, without revealing anything of the forms that give life to its light. And like all fragments it tends to wander.

In prefiguring this work, I thought yes to a line of light, but reflected, a clean, geometric, absolute ray that cut through the shadow of the wood. Then I found in my hands this reflection of heaven and I gave in to him, with the mood I recognize in this phrase of Calvin in "Hermit in Paris"..." you put the tip of the pen on the white paper, you study a certain angle for which come out of the marks that make sense..."