To paint a portrait is to paint life, a fragile life that contains in its splendor the mechanics of its fall. To paint a portrait is to paint somebody dying. To paint a portrait is also to knowing that the painting telling this life will exist after the disappearance of it, knowing that this depiction, tiny witness of a life, will later take the place of life. Designed in a lightning haughtiness, the portrait will often be contemplated only in its anecdotic living. Countdown, the merciful portrait, the film that won’t condemn the one to death during its own life, could be the one that will not cease slowing down, from which each layer of colors will question the previous one, a painting that will auto destruct itself as far as it paints and look at itself, in order to not jeopardize the life it suggests to paint. A man had to do a film, a portrait on men in canoes But already he is afraid of leaving, of drowning. He had before all, to slow down the year, slow down the year in order to not choose between the stars of the river and the sparkling china of the sink.