Slowly, though his heart was pounding like a runner's, Roman Opalka approached the canvas. He had painted it completely black. The date, though he set no store by dates, was1965. Clenched in his left hand was a pot of white acrylic paint; held tightly in his right was a No. o brush, the smallest standard size. He dipped the fine tip into the paint and then, very gently, as if in slow motion, raised his arm. His hand was trembling. Carefully he painted the figure 1 at the top left-hand corner of the canvas. At the same time he whispered, in his native Polish, jeden, one. The moment was so charged with emotion that he thought he might collapse. Instead, he had beeun.
展开▼
