A painting is never finished—it simply stops in interesting places. —Paul Gardner My aunt Prudence was raised in a proper English home. In her late teens she was sent to “finishing school” where they teach you about correct fork usage and appropriate topics of conversation. She quit and ran away to America and married a Texan. In a family that toasted the queen at lunchtime, this is a particularly “vulgah” thing to do. She spent the rest of her life drawing and sculpting. Sadly, I never met her. After hanging two shows in a week I feel worn and somewhat “finished”. So today has been luxurious…I got out my cookbook and selected five recipes. I store my recipes in a thick blue binder. They all
We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned so as to accept the life that is waiting for us.—Joseph Campbell. Looking out the studio window I see a sparrow waddling between islands of snow, pecking out bits of tasty things in the grass. The day stretches before me and I wonder how it might best be spent. It is a bright blue Sunday, a crisp edge of snow around the edges of things. Bodies of water seem particularly dark blue at this time of year. I vaguely wonder whether my son’s feet are wet as he paddles the Clyde river. The smell of ginger stock wafts into the studio from the kitchen and I consider various options. I lament not going paddling with my husband who needs some spa
