He painted on the large canvasses we now see in the Orangery Museum. A quiet man, who took the time to look at the light, the pale greens, the tender colours of the young plants. His garden is a spot for dreaming, thinking back to a time of peace. And then there is the gateway, the little painted bridge, an enigma, a sign, a parabole perhaps?
Where does it lead? Could it lead to you, wherever you are, surely painting, deep in thoughts, wondering. Yes, I see you now, in a secret part of your garden, where even ghosts tread carefully.
The freezing fog lifted an hour ago, as the skies got all at once brighter, surrounding the snow with sharp reflections. The garden is again in colour, emerging from the black and white dyes of the last few days. Small birds have reappeared, magpies perch melancholically on tree tops and high flying gulls cross over the landscape, aiming for the coast.