We stand in the open air and look at the sky and the clouds. We notice shades of colour and at the same time perceive details and tones of the soil.
Unconsciously our eyes flash back and forth, and from far to nearby.
In that way the picture emerges.
Because our eyes stand apart, two slightly different images are sent to our brain, which constructs a depth view.
An intricate and wonderful phenomenon, evolved by humans - and other animals - to comprehend their environment.
Our way of viewing however has changed drastically.
A great part of our waking lives we use our eyes to look at pixels.
Are we missing the real image? Or do we consider these artificial images to be reality, like the prisoners in Plato's cave who considered shadows to be the real thing?
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I like the mountains and the regions where vapor in the air tones down and harmonises the colours.
Where there are no sharp contrasts, but the changes blur.
Water, the liquid medium of my paint, disperses the pigments on the paper, tiny particles that mingle beyond control.
The same way air and water shape the clouds, always moving, muted and unpredictable.
The difficulties of working en plein air notwithstanding, I don't paint after photographs. I prefer using my eyes rather than trust what a lens has captured according to its calibration.
Other sensory stimuli - sounds, wind, temperature - contribute to the image.
The utter delight of being outside and slowly taking in the landscape !
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For many artists, painters of course, but also writers and composers, landscape is an important, even essential source of inspiration.
Sometimes I paint at locations where they have been, and saw the same landscape.
That awareness gives me profound happiness and strength. It feels like an extra dimension.
I like to go to the Dauphiné Alps, where Olivier Messiaen during summers notated birdsong, including precise descriptions of the surroundings.
Above, La Meije, where every year a festival pays tribute to him.
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I would like to visit Sussex, where Benjamin Britten was born and rerurned to live, next to his beloved grey North Sea.
Or Orkney, where Peter Maxwell Davies found isolation and silence.
The list is endless...
