Sometimes, he would give me a minute description of a single detail: a yellow light at the corner of a backcloth, or a hand slowly opening on the screen; his voice, amused and rapt, would suggest the infinite. But he also gave me very precious hints on how to look at a picture by Picasso; he flabbergasted me because he could identify a Braque or a Matisse without seeing the signature: that seemed to me like magic. I was dazed by all the new things he revealed to me, so much so that I almost had the feeling that he was the author of them all. I more or less attributed to him Cocteau’s Orpheus,
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