The black plaster
His plaster, the black panel, shone in an almost unbelievable way. It had a surface of satin gloss and sheen, yet so deep as if the world itself were in that plaster.
Whatever quality it was, it did not exist in the green plaster his son had made. I asked the elder Mr. Ishiguro, as we were all three standing there, what it was, and what the difference was. He said, quite openly, that his son, though he had been plastering for forty years, had never understood this “something”. He is interested in the business, he takes care of the money, he is a good plasterer. But I was never able to teach him this. And he shook his head.
That is a whisper of the something, a direct relatedness between person and matter, which has escaped our modern consciousness.