With the end of a year and a new one upon us I thought I might try and start to try and be a little more consistent with entries. I like many artists prefer to paint rather than write about the act of painting. I think this time of year one thinks about childhood. Giving gifts to my children I naturally think about my own childhood. There is something of a longing in most good paintings that I have seen. A Rothko painting makes me long for communication with the spirit; my own or in another realm. I have memories of driving in the English landscape to get a christmas tree. I remember seeing a group of trees in a field with fields and trees receding into the frozen landscape and liking what I saw. it is a clear memory I'm sure tampered with by time but I remember taking a mental note as if to my adult self my seven year old self stored valuable information. I would awake in America having dreamed that I was in the English countryside. Nothing ever really helped with the feeling of home sickness. I am home with my family and the people are what matter now but the places that imprinted on my brain then. The rural beauty and the field desolate unused until the spring seemed to be telling my little self something. "This is what time is. Things will come and go. Life and death, cold weather and warm weather, sadness and joy, they all need one another and ad to the richness of life. As the year closes and another begins there is hope.