There's a mood, a mental space where words rush into my head, make patterns faster than I can write them down. I'm almost never in this space - I am too tired. After work, I need silence and emptiness and it's all I can manage, but I also need words and need to write. After work I need rest and solitude and it's all I'm capable of, but I also need people, stimulation and activity. I'm not able to balance these conflicting needs and must learn how. The alternative is a kind of death.
|Miro: Drop of Water on Pink Snow, 1968|
|Miro: Painting on White Background for the Cell of a Recluse, 1968|
|Miro: Head of a Catalan Peasant, c 1925|