I looked at his face, his body—the stiffness he hid around his hips, the waning nervous fire in the man. I looked at the energy that hid in his eyes. He twisted slightly so that I could see him in profile. I realised he was not going to speak to me, and therefore I was not going to speak to him. This was the extent of our communication, the absolute distillation of our relationship: he was the one being painted, and I the painter. Any other man in that context would be called a subject, but this man could never be subject to anyone. For the moment he was showing me his face, how he moved and held himself: a man on a throne in a white cloak, master of everything. Then he moved again.