Missing Your Children

Every now and then I sell paintings which I kind of wish would somehow magically return. They are haunting to me. The one to the right captures a specific feel of invitation, anxiety, beauty and dread. It fascinates me.










The one to the left with the hydrant holds some sort of spell on me. Between the clouds portending either rejuvenating spring rains or the possibility of lashing storms and the pattern of tiny white flowers that lead the eye back and forth, in and out, I find I can stare at it for hours. All I have now is the picture. The real thing is far better. I can see the brush strokes in raking light, not to mention that the painting's color will never be as true in a photo.

Sometimes it is not enough to be the painter. I want to have it in my house where I can visit at any time.

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