A workman comes into his kitchen, washes his hands, and wipes them with a towel.
This is splendour of the very plain and simple; nothing heroic, nothing histrionic; no life and death dramatics; no hallelujah chorus; just an aria on the ordinary. No other content necessary. For there is an energy in the jacket folds and those of the towel, and in the lines of the pen that searches them out. The mind clicks and fixes the image into place.
fillière 