The levels dance on the canvas and want to pour themselves entirely into the foreground. They have lifted the world up toward us and are about to fall. It almost seems like a sketch, a painterly note. The world moves as if in an earthquake of vision. More evident than Pollock’s floor-painting, full of cigarette butts, this floor rises together with the air, the objects, with a whole that comes toward us trembling and obliquely. Everything floats and flies, overlaps, crowds together; it does not fall, it situates itself, finds its place. This lifting of all points of view assaults us, like something ancient, a vision without perspective. It precedes and surpasses Cubism. This whole expands but does not interpenetrate; each thing remains within its own field of existence. We now clearly know that everything is sphere, cube, rectangle—geometry that engulfs us. A vertigo that permeates vision without depth. It is a dizziness, a rising that adds a few degrees of tilt to the *Water Lilies*. It is not we who must bend down; it is the painting that comes crashing toward us—this time there is no doubt: it is the room that is rising. There is no possible inclination of mine, as viewer. All the more so since the points of view are multiple. With its structure of geometry and suffocation my house stupefies me; similarly to a scene from Sartre’s *Nausea*, I cannot hold back the reality that assails me like a vertigo of fog. The situation is not reassuring; it is fleeting, restless—I would not say disturbing. The little cupid, Cupid, speaks to us of apples and arrows, clinging like an anchor to the role of protagonist. The theme is a classical love, a transversal vision that, we now understand, cuts across time. And perhaps, if we let it happen and stop resisting the disturbance of viewpoints, it might absorb us into the history of time and of moments. The difference between the fruit in the painting painted within the painting and that simply painted in the painting becomes irrelevant; we will have to sate ourselves with vision and structure and, at the same time, with a loving nausea—not white but layered. Overlapping.
