I saw his left side. He wore a black robe – there was some red inside the folding – it seemed like a pattern of triangles and diamonds, yet eluded me. It was a flowing robe, I couldn’t see his feet. He seamed to be leaning across the tree right in the centre where I was looking at him. The tree wasn’t anything spectacular – just another tree that grew when no one noticed or cared. As I watched him even more, I realised, he wasn’t leaning on the tree; he was leaning on his sword. It took me some time to realise that – looking through the long blades of grass – unruly all over the land as if they had no care in the world. The sword gleamed shyly once and turned to reflect the sun elsewhere. He was looking ahead – straight ahead as if he saw the destination where he wanted to be. I would have imagined he would walk – but it dawned on me then that he was probably injured.

 I saw his face, but I don’t remember it.

It was a cut graphic, 5×7, portrait. The knees started at the top right corner, sitting on a massive throne, a seat perhaps. Those feet were perfect – almost chiselled in marble like Bernini would. My hands were at the bare feet – towards the bottom left. I could see myself – small – my head no bigger than the bone protruding at the ankle. Everything behind was grey and dark.

The feet: luminous.