It's hard to say why one can or can't express oneself artistically. I had not done watercolours in years. I claimed to myself that it was the lack of time, it pretended my head was not free enough. But I doubt it's the real reason. One needs a lot of courage actually to play with colours in a country that does it better than anyone else and beyond any possibility of competition. Whatever excuse: I cannot put words on it. But now that I tried, I am not happy about the result. I drew too much green, either because I am inhibited by the architecture (and the green is a good decoy) or because I am projecting my dreams of a greener garden. (Right now, most of it is suffocated by the shadows of our four thick mango trees). But even though if I am not happy with the product, I am happy with the process, because I no longer fear to try splashing colours on a blank piece of hard paper. Because I re-discovered the pleasure of sitting on an uncomfortable seat, the pleasure of looking the way one does not take the time to look, the pleasure of wiping the mistakes with a cloth that records the stains, the pleasure of deciding what's worth keeping on paper. So I tried out, without any guarantee whatsoever that what will come out of the experience will be worth sharing with anyone. Because even if the result is not that great, sharing the internal vulnerability about it is worth it. Maybe even more artistic actually.