January 24th, 3:08 AM. I keep the stations of this series in the order I found them and not in the order the calendar would prefer, and any viewer who checks the dates against the eighth station will see that the snow came before the wire. This is correct. The float was taken down, or it fell, and it lay beneath the fence in four inches of new snow, and the snow was still coming.
Everything had gone out of it. Not the air; the air had been gone since November. The colour. The seafoam was now the grey of something left on a windowsill for a decade, the yellow patch reduced to one dull smear at the lower right, and the tear from the seventh station had become the only dark shape in the painting, an open oval where the snow could not settle. In the Roman workshops a pupil was forbidden to touch white until his fourth year, and the reason given was that white is never white and is in fact eleven quiet browns with one cold edge. I mixed accordingly. The Burial of Saint Lucy gives two thirds of its wall to nothing and puts the figures low, at the bottom, small, and this is the quietest thing Caravaggio ever composed. I have put the float low and small and given the rest to snow, wire, and one distant lamp.
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