Chiara bends herself to life, she chose to do its will. She obeys the shapes, as far as the virtue of copy. This is her Humility, artisan of times when the apprenticeship was never ending, maniacal, closer to the devotion of a liturgy then to a discipline. But while she executes with the precision of someone decorating a code, Chiara has visions, a swarm of visionary bees cross the field, vibrate in the hand, affect the canvas. Chiara's white is hunger, dust, suture thread.