When the plane pierced the thick layer of clouds, making a landing approach, the view of the umber-grey country opened outside the window. It was Romania in November. I saw it this way, probably, because as a painter I was waiting to see its color.
Its capital received us with a dull sky, autumn coolness and the concrete walls of the airport with steel lifts. The architecture of Bucharest is a combination of brutal concrete boxes and fine modern buildings, bearing an imprint of time.
In the last day I was feeling a little shivery. I’d dressed in all the clothing I had brought, and went down and sat near the road. Stayed with the houses across the street, which were looking at me with their sad eye-windows, I began to paint their portrait.