A singular sweep of paintbrush down the length of the page, complemented by a few, sparse circular strokes at the corners - and he washed his brush. I watch in awe as he transforms a glossy white sheet of paper into a living, breathing story. His strokes are remarkably harmonized, and the vibrancy of the colours used adds a touch of reality to the entire scene. I can almost see the lush green grass sway to and fro moving in tune to the hum of the evanescent breeze, here the murmur of the tiny stream as it maneuvers around the bends of land; the waters sparkling as they catch the yellow glint of the sun - a splotch of paint, fiery oranges and yellows drawn against the purple background of a fading eve.

All of this: in ten minutes flat. He hands me the painting board, the paintbrush...