lives, showing in bright flashes, like a penny, in our stream
of thought—like new grass under snow.
For me a painting is like a story which stimulates the
imagination and draws the mind into a place filled with
expectation, excitement, wonder and pleasure.
J. P. HUGHSTON
PAINTERWe are intended to create. We refurbish a dowdy kitchen,
tie bows on a holiday cat, experiment with a better soup.
The same child who brewed perfume from a dab of this and
a dash of that, half dish soap and part cinnamon, grows up
to buy potpourri and to boil a spice pot that says,
“Christmas.”
As gray, as controlled, as dreamless as we may strive to
be, the fire of our dreams will not stay buried. The embers
are always there, stirring in our frozen souls like winter
leaves. They won’t go away. They are sneaky. We make a
crazy doodle in a boring meeting. We post a silly card on
our office board. We nickname the boss something wicked.
Plant twice as many flowers as we need.
Restive in our lives, we yearn for more, we wish, we
chafe. We sing in the car, slam down the phone, make lists,
clear closets, sort through shelves. We want to do something
but we think it needs to be the right something,by which we
mean something important.