I think about making crazy little paintings, i think about art fairs, with white tents and everybody wanting to know how long it took me to make things. so very long. I’m not even done yet. I think about what I’d make and sell in the tents, just to take my mind off the incessant squeaking from the freight docks below.

The radio this morning caused me to remember one particular spring drive in Virginia in the Blue Ridge, with the windows down, and a cigarette, Gone Driving up and down the hills, field to forest, pastoral Southern-ish, country store ham sandwich-ish all by myself for 13 years accompanied by my Great Pyrenees in the back of the pickup. And now, i lean in and say only to the laptop, ‘now I’m peddling into a much bigger machine, in a cement hive, to get my art in front of the peoples, ‘ i tell it like a juicy piece of gossip.

At the art fairs I couldn’t keep them away. Nothing calls a customer faster than the crinkling paper sound of art festival unwrapping.  I began to keep my best pieces in boxes until a serious buyer showed up, then with the unwrapping, and how the piece really was better than anything in the booth, which they already liked, Sold.