There are white days, when the sky diffuses a milky light, without shadows or highlights, and everything seems to melt into the same brightness. We find ourselves standing still, watching the slow descent of leaves torn from the branches by the wind. These white days are intimate refuges. They detach us from the turmoil, giving us permission to read, dream, or even do nothing at all. In this suspended silence, the mind opens up and seeks echoes. Art then becomes a natural companion, a resonance that prolongs the inner whiteness. What a day for a daydream...