In the fall of 2013 I was drawing in the vertical column of this bridge. It was sunny and the mistral was beating. My drawing box stood beside me on the ground. A tin box of my late grandfather that long ago Roode Star Tobacco had been in. A violent gust of wind suddenly hitched the drawing box and left him on the road down to where he was crushed by a passing car. Afterwards I hammered together the box again, so now I can still use it.



Painting from the window at Le Cluzeau in the winter of 1986. Subject: our woodpile, which was piled five meters away. I still think it's a beautiful painting. No idea where it went, but it is fortunately still portrayed in a book.