As a child, I used to draw on the sand paths in the gardens of Chateau de Versailles.

These drawings were large portraits of princesses and queens. I still remember how it felt to hold a wooden stick and make a line in the sand.

I would search for the stick and choose it carefully. It had to be sharp and thick enough not to break from the pressure, but thin enough to be held easily in a child’s hand.

The sand had to be dry on the surface but still a bit wet beneath, so the drawn lines were sharp and visible because of the color of the wet sand.

My parents used to slowly walk ahead of me or sit on a bench, giving me just enough time to finish the drawing. Sometimes I had to run to catch up with them. And then I ran forth to find the next place where I could make a drawing.

For me, it wasn’t about the result (I even hated when we came back to a drawing cause the sand dried quickly, and the drawing was less visible).

What I enjoyed most was this whole process of walking, running, drawing and running again.

Making beauty was to me (and still is) the process of re-centering. It heals me from stress and the everyday dosage of nonsense we, the adults, have to cope with (this is why I started encouraging women who have never thought of painting or drawing – to do that).