I always had an attraction for the Impressionism and painting en plein aire. Nature doesn’t  strike a pose.

Like in a poem, verse by verse, the artist’s vision is created with minimal brush strokes patiently assembled with unparalleled technique. I was a child and amazed by the magic sensation of seeing the picture only from far away. An impression. 

Life can be the result of these minuscule paint brushes, one by one. Sometimes it goes fast, sometimes it gets stuck. Time goes by. You have the impression that your life will take a certain direction, however, from a distance. 

Like Monet, you keep going to your magic garden: pond, lotus flowers, sunset, sundown, dawn, dewdrops, rain, sunshine. But sometimes it really seems stuck, in rewind mode. You start the morning with the good intentions of keep it going, and by the end of the day you wish you had slept all day: no paint brush got you closer to the impression. Tomorrow is another day.

Then alas a setback: people trying to convince you to take a different direction. You may want to believe they are doing it for your own good, and you come to the conclusion you ought to stick to your own intuition. Your impression. And the painting is dangling on the easel.

Just the last week of my life has been the catharsis of my own entire oeuvre. 

Consistency, perseverance, difficulties, adversities, belief, determination, self esteem started brushing the impression lively. Patience, observation, compassion, intuition, enthusiasm tweaked the shades. 

I am seeing the picture: it is close to that original impression I had and could not figure out to materialize. Amazing is how I thought I was never going to get it. As a fact I must say that I proudly made it happen.