Debussy

invoke the scent of old summer mornings,
the glitter of dust floating in golden sunlight.
dim light of hindsight fades, sharpens
memory liquid with the feel of piano keys
smooth to the touch,
glitter against blue water
and my mother's voice from the kitchen.

"That was better. Now do it again."

Reviews

[Cicera]

The differene between technique and feeling is so far when the artist is on his work, his creation being then not different than a poetic image. This distance becomes shorter to the point of complete integration with a sudden, strange and real voice that speaks knowingly, enjoins and conducts that difference into perfect indifference.

The fantasy or reverie you described is so beautiful and so analytical. I guess mastering art is in a way for the artist a way he takes towards understanding and not just indulging himself repeatedly with the mesmerising liquid of feelings.