The young man toted his pencils and sketch books in a small leather case and situated himself in front of a brown and wilted copse of trees up the hill from St. Georges Church. He found an old stump about 100 meters away and sat facing the tall maroon steeples and lyard outer walls. Rivulets of green algae and mold needed cleaning. Or painting. But from his stump seat up the hill, in the soft northern light in Fischlham, it looked perfect. Beautiful.