I place two figs on a window sill. They are withered slightly but probably still delicious inside. I study them slowly, squinting. Mild and soft September light is bathing the pair. The contrast between their plump, rich bodies and touching little pointy tops creates in me the familiar longong to paint. When it comes it's urgent. I rush for the paints, roll out the brush case with the jerk. Water. Where all the jars gone? Have to find a new one! The tap spurting tuns of frothy bubbles. Too much pressure.
Finally I'm down on the floor before my tantalising models and everything goes quiet again. The mystery begins. My needle-sharp long-leaded pencil is an extension of my fingers, my eyes and hands become one. I make the first, light, tentative strokes. Soon they grow bolder, more decisive. The firm contours reveal themselves gradually.
Now this it - the thick kolisnky sable is plunged into the clear depths of the former jam jar. Several brisk dabs at the colourful half-pens and a delightful muddy-blue liquid is trickling down the rough, thirsty paper. This feels good.