A painter who’d been working on a canvas for a long time without seeing in it, as she’d been hoping to, any image she wanted to settle on, and realize, or elucidate and bring to fruition, decided, as it appeared to her not to be progressing, but to always be in a state of change and indecision (so that one could not say that it was indicative of any subject, nor possessed of a particular purpose, other than that which might have been attributed to it, by an observer, due to whatever arrangement of form the brushwork could be said to have established, accidentally, at any given moment), that she would put it away for a while, and not look at it, but return her attention to it only after enough days had elapsed that her memory of it had diminished, and she could seem to herself to be seeing it for the first time, with, as it were, fresh eyes, though between now and then she would not work on anything else, nor start something new, but, during those hours that she usually spent in her studio, brushes in hand, would wander the city, allowing her thoughts to avail themselves of other ideas, and her gaze to find distraction in whatever appealed to it, regardless of whether those things could be described as art, or as instances of ordinary life.