The artist stood before his canvas with a deep desire to surpass himself and cried out, “Lord, I want to paint for you thirty-eight hearts, thirty-eight angels bursting with continual love for you, thirty-eight marvels embroidered on your heaven, thirty-eight suns upon your mantle, thirty-eight flames of fire, thirty-eight ardours, thirty-eight feats of madness, thirty-eight joys…”

Then, humbly, he had to admit that it was all in his imagination and desire. In reality what confronts him are thirty-eight figures which haven’t come out properly and which mortify the sight rather than give pleasure.