By Ana Moura

Blue sky, without a single cloud. And yet, Saramago’s question comes back to me: “Where do the clouds go when we are not looking at them?” And suddenly, my mind wanders to other absences—the cicadas and the seagulls. Where have they gone? Do the colours, shadows and shapes of the cliffs also miss being surrounded by their sounds?

With my back to the sea, I linger before beginning. Not for lack of inspiration; quite the opposite. Nature is so rich—in the many shades of a single colour, in the lines and curves that can never be repeated, in the untouched textures, in the dialogues between them all, in the details that escape me the first time, the second time, and always.

I brought a very small portable watercolour kit, a brand-new sketchbook, a pouch with pencils and pens, a jar of water, two brushes and a few sheets of absorbent paper.

There is an uncomfortable, typically August afternoon wind, plenty of people and background noise. The summer beach at its worst. I could simply give up. Just as I could stop writing this text here because of technological mishaps, Pages’ incompatibility with Word, multiple failed logins at Microsoft’s whim. A last-minute visit from friends, an emergency trip to the vet. A deadline in its final hours.

I open my new sketchbook and the wind lifts the first page. Next time I need to bring some clips—perhaps I will remember, or perhaps I will have this same thought all over again. Sitting in the sand, as in a yoga practice I am accustomed to, I allow myself to be guided by my right hand. How good, I think. I don’t want to interfere.

The cliff gazes at me. It seems to grasp my essence (still uncertain even to me) better than I grasp its own. There is a dance of sand in the air, inviting a few others to join in: the sheet of paper, the box of watercolours, my skin and hair. I suspect the cliff is behind it. I respond by diving into the paper, where I find silence and everything around me slows down.

I begin a quick sketch with a golden pencil I had forgotten I had brought. It is the first one I reach for, and the choice feels perfect. I would not have chosen this pencil at home. Here, there is this sense of wonder that overcomes so many “adversities”. And yet I cannot help feeling that it would be easier to be at home in my studio.

Some things could certainly turn out better, but the essential thing would not happen. Here, I can only use the materials I have brought with me; creativity stretches further, processes reinvent themselves. Here and now, I have to finish what I have started. There is no opportunity to lose myself in thoughts or doubts. In reality, for me, this is a great advantage: it is easier to bring something to an end here than at home.

I declare the work finished without hesitation. I wash the brushes and put everything away. As I leave the watercolour to dry completely, everything returns to its place. The cold wind, the flying sand, the loud music from the soundcheck for tonight’s party, the bathers I had ignored. I turn around.

Facing the sea.

I watch its languid movements, its intense, complex blues spilling onto the sand without ever staining it. These blues exist only now and only here.

Just so there is no doubt, I am quite pleased with my watercolour of the cliff.