A small playful landscape done on board with palette knife.
There are times when each detail of the ordinary interests me for its own sake, and I feel a fondness for things, because I can read them clearly. Then I see – as Vieira said that Sousa, in his descriptions, saw – the ordinary with singularity, and I have the poetic soul that inspired the intellectual age of poetry among the Greeks. But there are also moments, such as the one that oppresses me now, when I feel my own self far more than I feel external things, and everything transforms into a night of rain and mud, lost in the solitude of an out-of-the-way station, between one and another third-class train.
Fernando Pesoa – Book of Disquiet
In his poem “Autumn Sky” Charles Simic writes: