Summer with Monika, 1953. Photo: Louis Huch, (c) Svensk Filmindustri.
My grandmother had a very large old flat in Uppsala. I had a pinafore with a pocket in the front and sat under the dining table “listening” to the sunshine that came in through the gigantic windows. The sunlight moved about all the time, the bells of the cathedral went dingdong and the sunlight moved about and “sounded” in a special way. It was a day when winter was giving way to spring and I was five years old. In the next flat the piano was being played, waltzes, nothing but waltzes, and on the wall hung a large picture of Venice. As the sunlight moved across the picture, the water in the canal began to flow, the doves flew up from the square, gesticulating people were engaged in inaudible conversation. The bells were not those of Uppsala Cathedral but came from the very picture itself, as did the piano music. There was something very remarkable about that picture of Venice. Almost as marvelous as the sunlight in Grandmother’s drawing room, which was not the usual kind of sunlight but had a special ring about it. But perhaps this was due to the many bells … or the heavy furniture, which, in my fantasy, conversed in a never-ending whisper. [The Ingmar Bergman Archives. Excerpt from the essay by Ingmar Bergman]