Before the restoration, it was the colors I watched, blue, red, yellow, green, pink; the architecture, the meadow, the hedges, the water. Now, what I see is light. White light. Color has been absorbed into form, Form is in the service of surprise. It is the light, the throbbing illumination, glowing on the horizon, rippling in the waters, blowing through the grasses, that touches my lips. Something has been set in MOTION.
A tourist spending the night in a small New England Town joined a group sitting on the porch of the general store. After several vain attempts to start a conversation asked, "Is there a law against talking in this town."
"No law against it," said one old timer. We just like to make sure it's an improvement on silence."