It occurred to me today as I meandered from room to room in the little yellow house, picking up Pickle orts (toys, burs, pieces of the outdoors), that there is not a wall anywhere that does not sport an original work of art. The room I am sitting in has eleven, ten of them paintings, one a photograph, seven of them mine, four my dear friend's. And there are two in the bathroom. And five in the kitchen. And I don't know how many in the bedroom. Don't even think about the studio, where they cover every inch of the available wall space, and the garage, where they filled a huge cupboard. Lots of elan on these walls. I need a lot more of them - walls, not paintings. I hope someday they will be on the walls of a gallery somewhere. And, is it too much to hope a museum, too? Yeah, that's a stretch.
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