Portrait of a Painter as a Late Middle-aged…

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,

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