He used to sit on that armchair every night, waiting for the day to end. He waited for darkness to come, to finally begin to see. To observe. He observed the night. He looked at the night carefully, he examined it, studying, with an incredible care, every single detail. But if there’s no light, how can one see things? Light separates – he thought – but darkness unites. It is in the darkness that shapes and colors merge. And become silence. Indeed, everything was silent that night. And this helped him focusing. He took his notebook, the one with the black leather cover. He started leafing through it, looking for the first blank page. Another page to fill. He used to fill it with notes. Notes about the night. He took note of all the night’s shades he was able to catch. He wrote them down, he transcribed them, using always more correct words. But why was he so interested in the night? What was so terribly fascinating about the night? The night. The mystery of a moment that repeat itself everyday and yet is every day different. There were canvases everywhere, in his atelier. But those weren’t just canvases, those were experimentations, residues, inadequate trials, cut outs of darkness, exercises of representation. He aimed at unifying, in one single painting, all those things that daylight relentlessly separated. He aimed at bringing the night exactly where it couldn’t arrive. Into a painting. Paint the night. What purpose could art have ever had, if not the one of bringing the artist to overcome the limits of reality?