TV Nights
His art studio was next to mine. Paint brushes and unfinished canvas left all about. Peter had vanished, not seen for months. People still clamored for his abstract paintings, in galleries Seattle to San Francisco, he turned paint into money. One patron even hired a private eye to track him down, another reported they saw him painting in a small Mexican town. Most thought his absence a marketing ploy. I knew different.
He once lamented to me that art success could trap you. Make work out of joy, rob passion, and cause you to produce painting after robotic painting. Peter said, “Once stamped with a style, you were imprisoned by it.” I knew he left to find himself again, to paint anew.
I thought about this as I took out my brushes to paint, looking at their worn edges. I had never found my own style. Maybe all the colors and techniques confused me. Maybe painting success will always elude me. Maybe it was the echos of Peter’s wisdom. I wondered who the wandering brush was, Peter or myself…
Chinese Restaurant
Forest Walk
Sisters
Stoicism
Purple Mountain Sun
Before the Party
Sounding
Flowers for Me
Walk and Talk
Gaps on the Record
After the Game
Dashes in the City