The judge appears one morning in March, quite imperceptibly, on Piotr’s palate.
Without looking, he fanned the judge with a broad brush, before resuming his blending work.
“Ah!” he groaned, “the canvas is fighting me today.”
The judge, as different combinations of colour, was admonishing Piotr from the palate, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. What’s more admonishing than pumice and lavender the judge thought.
Even under such strict reprimand, Piotr assigns agency to everything around him except the gestalt meta physical spectre controlling the pigments on his palate.
After a few years of this the judge gives up, and goes and bothers the capitalists again.