In my view, this painting is a religious work. *A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte*, in terms of technique, is not irrelevant here. In Seurat, small touches of color construct reality. Now, in this case, that same reality is guided and permeated by brushstrokes. There is no need for a religious subject in order to speak about God. Moreover, Van Gogh himself had a religious upbringing. It may be that in this work he is addressing technique alone—this changes little. The idea of a “death in order to reach the stars,” which he writes about in his letters to Theo van Gogh, does not strike me as insignificant. Finally, the reading of *Les Misérables* is a fairly precise reference, and perhaps an even more accurate one.I would nevertheless point out that in *The Starry Night* everything of true, deeply felt religion is already present. “The wind blows where it wills, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit” (John 3:8). A full interpretation of this Gospel passage would not be simple, and this is not the proper place for it. However, it interests us at least in one sense. The direction of the wind’s breath permeates the life of things. The Spirit acts within nature; it is immanent, present. Whether we see it or not, it is already here, within things, not outside them. This is not a predetermined destiny, but a benevolent, internal, personalized presence. Like dialogue with God, it arises from the subject and at the same time was already there, inside all things. From the vision of this guiding movement—through tones and colors—we derive more peace than agitation. It is not necessarily a presence that overrides free will, but perhaps one that, alongside or after it, consoles, sets things right, provides. Or perhaps all of this together. Or maybe it is a presence that exists as tension, something we perceive in reality without fully grasping its direction. This work makes an invisible movement visible, rather than an action. The contemplative vision—frozen, slowly captured, as we described in Seurat—here takes flight: a breath of wind disrupts the stillness of vision, stirs it, and stirs us as well, like the winter sea. As happens with fields, with the sky, with life. Everything participates in the same creation into which I myself aspire to be integrated. We thus discover that this integration is not an immersion, but a direction—not necessarily a clearly defined one, but a present one. Abandoning myself to the flow of life, trusting that it is the only possible path. Vision has now been broken down into ever smaller segments; all of them take on life and movement, becoming engines as well as being moved. This motion constitutes them as living. Here they are, given direction; here I must assume a new gaze in order to grasp the breath; here, in painting, is the constant presence of the transcendent.
