Portrait of a Painter as a Late Middle-aged (Old) Woodchuck
A strange week of painting. Winter and spring locked even in a tug of war, and I am the embodiment of a hibernating woodchuck, opening an eye to peek out the ground hole, not liking what he sees, and going back to sleep, or paint, or cooking with fat. I want Spring, but I want it now, in full bloom. The warming up time is an oppressor season of tease and disappointment. Just one flower not a crocus, please. I want to clack my claws and make it be May.
Fortunately, I was able to take a day out of the den with a friend who helped me deliver my last commission to a very pleased commissioner. She said “Oh Ron!” more times in five minutes than I ever deserve to hear, for any reason—especially the one you’re thinking of. I would do it again, but only if I can hear the gushing first, before the stretch and gesso, and the gross underpayment for a fool’s approach to contentment.
Meanwhile, a few paintings from this week, and a partial look at my ground hole waiting for the warmer sun.