Sometimes I look straight at it – muted sunlight, subdued by a veil, a curtain, weakened though never dethroned, playful if not an accomplice. But most often I hope to reap its effects, its echoes, its ephemeral imprints, its accidental shadows. I linger over its sheen, its reflections. I track it.
This sun creates mock buildings, as on the wall of the Pantheon. It opens the simulation of a grate, a dormer window, between the Carrée courtyard and the Louvre pyramid. It emboldens the lines of a street, coating it with incandescent matter. It separates into dots of light among dead leaves. It is immanent on wrought-iron fences, gardens, lawns, fountains.
