There are days when making a painting seems impossible. It is furtive (furtif) and just out of reach. I have days and days of this and it makes me want to jump into the nearby river. My only solace is reading about writers who also speak of the seemingly impossible task (une tâche) of making something work. I need to read about their long and difficult days, their tortured nights, when alone, they tackle their craft (metier). The river is freezing these nights.