The first day was useless. I set up at seven, painted for two hours, and produced something that looked like a postcard written by someone who had never been there.
So I went back the next morning and did not bring the brushes. I walked the harbour wall, sat on the rocks until my hands went numb, and wrote down what was actually there: the smell of diesel, the way the houses leaned into each other, the particular grey of the water under a cloud that is not going to move.
On the third day the painting took four hours. Not because it was easy, but because I had finally seen the place instead of the picture of it I already had in my head.
