I can't sleep…
I still wasn’t sure exactly what form the painting would take. But I did know how I should begin. Those first steps—which brush to use, what color, the direction of the first stroke—had come to me out of nowhere: they had gained a foothold in my mind and, bit by bit, taken on a tangible reality of their own. I loved this process.
~ Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore: A Novel. (Knopf, October 9, 2018)
Photo: cnd.ha (via Your Eyes Blaze Out)
Sunday was another fine clear day. No wind to speak of, and the fall colors in the valley sparkling in the sunlight. Small white-breasted birds hopped from one branch to the next, deftly pecking the red berries. I sat on the terrace, soaking it all in. Nature grants its beauty to us all, drawing no line between rich and poor. Like time—no, scratch that, time could be a different story. Money may help us buy a little extra of that.”
~ Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore: A Novel. (October 9, 2018)
Photo: Paula W with chaffinch
I went to the kitchen to start making lunch, but no sooner had I picked up a knife than I realized I was no longer ravenously hungry. Instead, I was very sleepy. I got a blanket, stretched out on the living room sofa, and promptly drifted off. I had a dream, a short one. It was clear and very vivid. But I couldn’t remember anything about it. Just that it was clear and vivid. It felt as though a fragment of real life had slipped into my sleeping mind by mistake. Then the moment I awoke, it fled like a quick-footed animal, leaving no trace behind.
~ Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore: A Novel. (October 9, 2018)
Photo: Yourtango
Autumn steadily deepened around me.
The sky opened up, the air clear and crisp,
the clouds like beautiful white brushstrokes.
~ Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore: A Novel (October, 2018)
Photo: Matt Champlin with Brushstrokes
The next morning I woke up at five thirty…It was still pitch dark outside. After a simple breakfast in the kitchen I changed into work clothes and went into the studio. As the eastern sky grew brighter, I switched off the light, threw open the window, and let chilly, fresh morning air into the room. I took out a fresh canvas and set it on the easel. The chirping of birds filtered in through the open window. The rain during the night had thoroughly soaked the trees. The rain had stopped just a while before, bright gaps in the clouds showing. I sat down on the stool, and, sipping hot black coffee from a mug, stared at the empty canvas before me.
~ Haruki Murakami, Killing Commendatore: A Novel (October, 2018)
Photo: Reddit