There is no one truth, but there are many stories.

Many years ago, I had the privilege of standing at what felt like the end of the Earth. I saw a plaque there stating that a village, now gone, had been there in the eighth century. I wondered who they were, and what their hopes, fears, and experience were. It was a beautiful evening that was getting colder; the wind was blowing. It felt as though the past, the present, and the future were colliding. Many years ago, I complained to my father of being a misunderstood artist. He calmly gave me “the look,” and said, “People rarely care for what they do not understand. Paint something they can.”

I once gave an aspiring artist a critique. She asked what my work was “about.” I uttered some thoughts. She looked at me, and said, “When you get you.” I said, “Who said that, may I use it?” She said that I just had!

Thanks very much.