Wandered over to the Centre Pompidou last night--it's open late, the rain had stopped, we'd hardly been out of the house all day--and wandered among the contemporary collection, came home, had dinner, went to bed thinking about Joan Mitchell's huge painting and a smaller, contemporaneous one by de Kooning, the latter purchased years ago by the museum, the former acquired in lieu of estate taxes when Mitchell died.
Both the de Kooning and the Mitchell were gestural, with drips (up and down in Mitchell's case, meaning that she must have flipped the canvas around), but her shapes floated fairly separately across the canvas, whereas his wrestled with one another. On another wall was a Twombly ("Achilles mourning the death of Patrocles") very lyrical, beautiful, and floaty, like the Mitchell.
When I left here in May I was in the middle of a book by Pavese, which I picked up again, at the bookmark, and kept reading, though I only vaguely remembered the story. I thought I was going to leave it unfinished again, when I go next week, but last night the narrative felt like it was coming to a climax, and I glanced ahead: very tricky Einaudi, there are about 20 pages at the end of the book that are not the actual story, and yes, there is only one chapter left, and I am going to finish it tonight or tomorrow. Then I can read it again, and maybe catch more of the Italian.