As a salve to some loneliness,I have doggedly carried around a book by Natalie Goldberg called Living Color. For 15 years.
I have it on my table in the studio. And then beside my bed under a pile of New Yorkers.
And then I take it on holiday. Technically, she isn't my friend.
Goldberg boldly paints raw paintings of things she loves. She does rickety trucks and cafes, an old stove.
Her father’s face.
The paintings are more peasant than MoMA. They are free of that