T

he farmer in deep thought is pacing through the rain among his blank fields, with hands in pockets, in his head the harvest already planted. A cold wind ruffles the water among the browned weeds. On all sides the world rolls coldly away: black orchards darkened by the March clouds – leaving room for thought.

Down past the brushwood bristling by the rainsluiced wagonroad looms the artist figure of the farmer – composing – antagonist