Hundertwasser's comment on the work

I often paint while travelling, and for this I prime packing or drawing paper with chalk and fold it into quarters or eighths so the paper takes up as little space as possible. Then I put the folded paper in my right jacket pocket and the watercolours in the left, and when I have time somewhere - if I have to wait, for example, for a visa at a consulate or for a woman at a café - I take out the paper. I don't want to attract a lot of attention. When a painter spreads out a big sheet of paper in a café somewhere and starts painting, that is very noticeable. But if somebody just takes out a small bit of paper that looks like this - no bigger than a letter envelope - people sitting off at a distance think the man is writing a letter or postcard. And then I ask for a glass of water and paint on the part lying face up. And then, when I am in another café, I unfold another part of the paper - again with only a small portion showing. Thus, I often don't get a chance to see the whole surface; after all, I can't unfold the paper until I am home and can look at the whole picture in peace and quiet. In this way strange things often come about. In the case of this picture, it is very obvious that I painted four parts independently of one another. I do indeed strive to make the finished picture a unified whole - which means that when I paint one part I picture in my mind what has already been done on the rest, and I try to continue on with that. At the edges I also make some marks in order to know where I have to go on. And all the same, once I unfold the paper, the picture is so strange that it astonishes even me. And then I don't know what to call it. The various titles for this picture were suggested by several people. Only Garten im Regentropfen is by me. Theatre, Cabin and Mouth came from other people. (from: Hundertwasser, Buchheim Verlag, Feldafing, 1964 and ed. 1973, p. 28) On the way to Anguillara Sabazia on Lake Bracciano, where I was invited to visit Alberigo Bruni, a friend and the proprietor of Galleria Medusa in Rome. It grew late, and there was a lot of snow, so I thought I would stay the night and paint what I saw from my window. (from: Hundertwasser 1928-2000, Catalogue Raisonné, Vol. 2, Taschen, Cologne, 2002, pp. 447-448)