Lloyd Rees, his blind eyes an inch from plied canvas, this year will die. He’s applying paint with his hands because his fingers have lost the grip needed for brushes. Derwent estuary’s only gold, only blue, only haze. He wears a hat inside like someone from France but outside it’s broad daylight. The man who drew Tuscany in July so every line meant, in his last year pushes the colour in our faces. He, who could describe rock formations and tree particulars of Port Jackson so every edge was exact, amasses in his final months only splendour the sun imparts.