The welts on my chest were still raw. It'll take a few days to understand my three hours with Madame X. But I knew that each lash hastened the withdrawal of all my projections and so I had a feeling of renewal, of sentience. Later that day, as I drove to the castle to see Rubens, I opened the window and could smell the rain in the air.

It pains me to sit down so, by necessity, this will be short. But I was in a receptive mood as I entered the State Apartments. The self portrait shows Rubens on a horse, his black felt hat tipped at an angle, looking out with his usual curiosity, his energy checked only by the grace of a certain reserve. Yet this self portrait shows him in motion. He is on business, perhaps a diplomatic mission. But is he running from himself, too? Above his head an angelic nymph is catching up with him, ready to crown him with laurels. He looks startled enough to know he must keep riding, must keep on track with the world, it's business, he must keep on playing the part. So what was my master telling me? All this, as Rilke would say, is mission. People walking by with rucsacks, coloured shorts, cotton.  Carefully, I put my hand inside my shirt, running a finger over each welt.