Behind the table where jars and pots hold plants that are slim and dark, where cloths of blue plaid and pink drape the table edge, a figure steps forward energetically, anchored by the block under his toes. This walking man, sere and lean as a branch in winter, strides in to meet the black plants. They welcome him as a fellow creature, turning their blossoms in his direction. One can hardly match Giacometti’s anxiety, but one can imagine his energy field.