In the past whenever I had an idea for a painting, I would sit down and first draw my notion on paper. That always took me quite a while, as I am not very good at drawing. Now, I hardly use a pencil at all. I no longer have a pre-fixed vision of what I want to paint. Today I start with what is the most joyous part for me – having the watery color drop down from the brush onto the paper. I can feel its fibers pulling in the color, and I absolutely love that.

I am painting a lot in our Swakopmund house. I start to paint a head, a house, an animal. Right now I am fascinated with Khoisan, Bushmen, rock paintings. Yesterday I bought a book with photographs of some of their fifty thousand paintings in Namibia’s Brandberg Mountains. I try to paint in their style. Their figures seem to be simple, nearly childlike, but it is hard work for me to copy them. They are not nearly as simple as they seem. The lines are, in fact, neatly observed and very elegant. My copies are clumsy, and my respect for these ancient artists increases even more. I create Bushmen-like drawings in my own style. I am okay with them. These are my paintings, and I am just me. I am not Bushwoman.

Miraculously, it seems the images begin to paint themselves. Out of the head grows a hand which is then transformed into a tree trunk. The creation continues developing, never limited by fantasy, only by my painting skills. I create vibrant patterns on every block of color which saturates the paper. I construct even smaller patterns within the larger ones. I feel as though I am extending my mind and brush into a micro-cosmos. Caution is needed, however. If I don’t stop at the right moment, I create too many small dots. I must recognize when the miniaturization has been maximized. If not, the forms lose their strength.

It seems my painting has stopped, replaced by a force within me, directing my hand. The image flows through me onto the paper. The painting creates itself. I feel color and pattern now; I do not think them.

When I write, the experience is similar. As I talk to someone or observe an animal, a thought develops. I feel a part of my brain begin to work with the experience, long before I sit down at the computer or open my notebook. That part of my brains looks for words, combines them, discards them, and constructs sentences and paragraphs. At the same time, I am washing the dishes, showering or reading a book. On occasion, a thought I have had while scrubbing the dirty pots melds with what I am reading in a book. Next, ideas from a TV program are added to the mix. And still, I do not sit down to write. Instead I go to have a coffee or watch a movie in the cinema.

The next morning as I walk along the beach, I can read the whole text in my head. Walking gives me the time and quiet to listen to it. Without having consciously finalized the collage in my brain, it has all come together. Now I am ready to record it. Returning home, I sit down at the computer and write. Or does the text write itself? Afterwards I reread -- criticizing, shortening, lengthening, correcting.

The most important moment in photography is the first one, that nanosecond when the button is clicked. I have to be alert and present not to miss it -- not to miss the right light on the landscape. I must attend to where to crop the mountains or the sky with the frame to create an interesting whole. If I am dreaming of a painting or a text with part of my brain, then I am most probably not there for the right moment of a photograph.