In the Autumn there is a free party in every park. The waiters are proudly carrying their trays, their palettes of colour. One can hear hasty swishes of the festive gowns. The wind is wildly whirling the grasses' long hair.
I am painting with watercolours and the rain makes its own marks on the paper.
The Winter comes. The landscape is shrouded like a mystic icon hidden in a wardrobe. It opens furtively. There are no outlines; the nordic light gently links the trees, bushes and rocks into one large image. The trees are standing as silent witnesses. The darkness becomes ever denser. I marvel at the various shades of grey and purple.
The sun electrifies the landscape. New forms are relentlessly opening before my eyes. After the long winter the brush strokes hesitate but soon become energetic and strong.
The summer flowers are the extravagant decorations of the high season. Some are glittering ornaments, others magnificent diamonds. Their stems are endlessly winding, forming capriciously crossing lines while the leaves linger in the shadows.
There is a flash of intensive blue in the undergrowth. What is it? I try to catch it with my brush and colour. A dazzling mixture of different blues forms on the paper. The liquid colour moves to diffuse into the water. I keep adding more and more and then wait. Slowly the work begins to dry. And before my very eyes it happens again: the intensity of the blue dissipates.
I sigh. I'm not even close: there is always plenty to do for the day after.