In the Emperor's Palace, there's nothing on the floor but the ceilings are coloured, painted with gold and blue, clad with birds. Bliss of the stroke and of the touch, of shivering. Looking for movement and resonance. The Westerner's eyes and fingers are clumsy. One should look carefully at the skin of the red-currant and at the sky with an ant's eye.
China becomes slowly more familiar.
One should be able to paint not the thing but the emotion it entails, or the glance of he who watches it. Painting the crowd deep down in one's eye. Painting either a heart or a sky beat, the pulse and puff of time. In this country sex remains invisible, apparently non-existent, surely well mastered or hidden. It is impossible to say how the Chinese experience their drives and instincts.