I flew back home this week from NSW. For long time, the plane was just above the cloud cover, so that the view from the plane was of a landscape of hills, valleys, vistas, all made of nothing but water vapour but exhibiting all manner of shades of light. And all of course utterly unreal.
In real, close-up life, the way to get into these things is to to ski. In places liker Val Thorens, it is possible to get a lift up above the clouds on some days, and then to ski down through the clouds. In this real life, the wonderful formaltions one sees from the plane are less evident. The clouds are pretty fuzzy. And wet. Really quite wet. And cold. Not so magical, when one is actually there.
Maybe Turner was right. Just paint them. From the ground.
And what about our old friend Hector Berlioz? He fell hopelessly in love with the Anglo-Irish actress Harriet Smithson. And even persuaded her to marry him. But when he got close up, the marriage was a total disaster. Maybe actresses, like clouds, are better enjoyed form a distance?