One of my friends invites me to the studio where he goes to paint every day. They are a group of black artists in Tangier, the Black Painters, but on this day it is only him working in the studio.

The walls are bulging with paintings and colors and I take a slow tour around the room and let the artworks pull me into them. There’s a lot of energy. My friend is playing reggae music on his phone and slowly working on a piece. He’s painting on rocks and is currently laying down a thin-thin outline of a face with a brush that only seems to have three-four strands left. He invites me to paint and in the corner of the room I choose a rock from a pile.

Many eyes look down on me from the walls, many colorful portraits inspire me and I too decide to paint a portrait and turn the smooth rock surface into a face. I start with the eyes. They are my favorite.

My friend doesn’t speak much but when he does he does so slowly and that suits me just fine. He speaks English but lets me practice my French too, and we mix. I find it easy to follow the words as they fall from his lips, they seem rounded somehow and I feel like I have time to think and phrase.

I learn that my friend is the seventh of fourteen children and that he himself has a daughter of thirteen years back in Cameroon. He tells me that I should have five children myself, and I laugh at this. (I am by now quite used to people telling me that I should already be married and have children. Very seldom do I point out to them that would that be the case, they would never have met me.)

By the pictures on the paint cans I gather that they are meant for cars and I enjoy the thickness of the paint and the brightness of the colors, even though it feels sinful. Not really in line with the art I otherwise make, where I avoid materials that are not organic. Still, I think, I am a guest here and for this one time I’ll allow myself to try it out. Having this experience together feels more important. We paint in peace, the music echoing between the walls. My hands go cold and by back hurts but I enjoy the process, slowly meeting the piece as it comes to be by my steady hand.

…

(This story told in pictures.)