A start for another still life. I am never sure any painting will be what I want it to be. I wonder if paintings are like the stories that authors claim write themselves and they don't even know how they will end. Maybe I should just start painting without any plan and see where I get to.
There was a huge storm, and now that its passed, its a simmering 3 degrees F.(-16C)outside. No more pansies until spring.
Somewhere down there, and I think it's on the Oklahoma, is my neighbor's son.
Its an odd feeling to sit at a computer 68 years later, and find a picture of the precise moment when the life of someone you met and knew suddenly changed forever.