"Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone ..." William Wordsworth

08 April 2016


Chatham, Hayfields, 1995

The blade is rasping, the paint is falling to the bottom of the easel, rasp, rasp, rasp. He blows on the painting as if imbuing it with life, shakes it, puffs on it again, then sands it lightly, holds it out at arm’s length, and is satisfied. And it is beautiful.

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