They just start coming, images, one after the other, a film, with an inner rhythm.
A napkin on a washing line, blowing in the wind. Then two napkins. Then napkins on a line seen diagonally, then glanced from the house, always the wind, a couple of (dark) pauses then a pan, napkins floating in the wind, again the napkins on a line, and on. This simple description belies the wonder of the film. As often with works that are composed, edited in the camera; it has the specificity of recording the moment of creation as it was for the artist.