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.