On this cool afternoon in late fall, when we were almost alone on Grado beach, a sea storm was slowly approaching, but was still in the distance. The overcast could not be overlooked in the sky, a fresh wind tugged at our coats, but there was still no sign of rain or thunderstorms. Dozens of folded umbrellas stood silently on the gray-brown beach. The guests had been back in their warm rooms on both sides of the Alps for weeks. The vault of sky that presented itself to me was boundless. Even a double image only conveys the main act of this cloud opera. The horizon seems to set the stage, a straight abnormality under a scene that knows no right angles. And yet clouds are formed according to physical laws, cumolonimbus as well as nimbostratus, their seemingly chaotic, picturesque arbitrariness concealing a well-functioning machinery. It has been my wish ever since to paint this celestial spectacle in the largest canvas format that just fits into my Suzuki. I wonder what the fascination with the sky is. I'm not sure, but it's omnipresent. Maybe it's the direct connection to nature, the thunderstorms that bring rain, hail or snow. No house walls, car steel or protective forests separate you anymore.