Saints. br Like swans, gliding untroubled so it seems br to us, lazing on the river bank br of a Seurat summer Sunday afternoon, br gliding over the surface of the waters br as love perhaps, on that first day; br they as floating symbols br of the beauty beyond beauty; br their work, invisible to us who watch br br Painters. br Like waterlilies, resting in perfection br on the surface of the waters br as love rests, sure of their own beauty; br painting just the sunlight br falling on things, moving on br more slowly than we see; br the depth of the waters br in the painter’s mind and heart; br his work invisible to us who watch br his dabbing at the canvas br as a dabchick bobs in the water, his mind br moving as time moves; br for him, sitting at the canvas, br always time present, br in the water-garden already on his palette br br Cataracts. br How far a word from br the stillness around him as he sits, br his beard a little yellow from the nicotine, br seeing the waterlilies as if for the first time, br but each year the water seems to tell br more about time itself… like Proust; br where is time going in this painting? br br Eyes. br Cataracts, yes; but perhaps over time br they too have sought to serve him, br become themselves, impressionists, br presenting him with images br prepared like canvasses are prepared; br gently watering inner gardens br between the eyes and mind br br yes, that’s Monsieur Monet over there; br don’t disturb him; but if you stand br a little way behind him, you just may br enter the stillness around him, br enter the stillness of his mind, br see with his eyes, that work br invisible to those of us who watch br which swans and saints and artists know.