Last days of summer, October 29, and still the sun beats down. Mornings are full of swirling mist that, at once, consumes and spits out the landscape. To quote the cliche “the end is nigh.” The question is of what? We wait for change, and the mists grow thicker.
My paintings are hanging , as you know, now is the wait. I have sold enough of them to cover my costs, now the hope is for a little profit.
However there is new light, the long shadows of autumn, and a new character, Claudio the gardener, my self appointed critic. “That’s good,” he said, through a haze of thick Padovan, “I have to say that because it’s you.” He smiles and gives me a plastic cup of Prosecco. I’m home.