The two hours I trust
Why I paint only at first light and the last hour before dusk — and what I do with the rest of the day.
People assume a painter works when the studio is brightest. I do the opposite. The middle of the day flattens everything; the light is honest but it has no opinion. I keep those hours for walking.
The light I trust arrives twice. At first light the valley is still deciding what colour it will be, and for perhaps forty minutes it lends you a version of Provence that will not survive breakfast. Then, at the last hour, the whole country leans gold and violet, as though it knew it was about to be taken from you.
So I paint in two short shifts and spend the long middle of the day watching. My neighbours think I am idle. I am working harder then than at the easel — I am learning the place well enough that when the light comes, I already know where everything is.
