This is what happens when an image looks kind of fuzzy to me after perusing it for a while. I put the paintings on the kitchen table, which I walk by fifty times a day, and sort of stroke my chin every so often, wondering if they could get better if I went back into them, added some value here, took some away there, warmed it up, or cooled it down. The little ones are so much more vivid, and truly, new life is always ever so much brighter. These little white-faced fellows just seemed to punch a hole in the world with their color. I am happier now, even if they are not perfectly like the photograph. I like mine better. No offence, HP. You do a good job, too. And I am so grateful to be able to do this at all. The moments I spend painting are the most wondrous time for me. Everything is good then, the idea just flows from my head and heart onto the canvas. And when it is successful, when it is realized (made real and concrete), there is no greater joy.
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