the light here in glendale is astonishing--here, in this little narrow isthmus of land between the san fernando valley and the san gabriel valley--the light hangs in the air, is tangible, alive, touchable--your hands feel it on your fingertips--you could part it like a warm curtain--and every hill is become a luminist painting, every tree a skeletal silver-print hand slid between you and the honey, the apricot sky distant and dredged with clouds, set against the black mountains, the light absent from them as it bends backwards away from us, receding along the round of the earth to the western ocean...