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41 Sel f- P o rt r a it w it h Se v en Fi n g er s I I The first thing I ever saw was a trough. Simple, square, half hollow, half oval. A market trough. Ma rc Ch ag a ll And the first thing I remember, Chagall, was daylight. In fact, dust. Particles of dust swirling in the daylight coming through the bedroom window. The light was still because the dust was dancing in it. I could still look at it in wonder, too dumb to doubt its charity. Like the promise of air holding parachute silk high above the children’s heads in the park, or water overflowing, pushing out the ripples, becoming like glass, before it falls. We are like this, you and I, the trough, and the light and dust inside. ...

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