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These trips to see him and the trips with my mother had one focus it seemed; to escape our lives for awhile and while escaping, to create work which would express how we reflected upon our life, and the beauty surrounding us. Perhaps it was my own interpretation, but many a time I would see my mother take out her quill pen and sketch book and draw a tree or an old man's face~almost as often as I would see my father take out his pocket knife and take it too a thick piece of cottonwood bark or read poetry to us while we sat by a river. Apart from each other they ran parallel and I fit between them like a physics experiment of motion and energy.
How to communicate with people? This was the adventure that as a child, I took into adulthood~ how to express these universal emotions and make something tangible of them. Emotion was unreasonable and invisible. And I say it was this because we were all doing everything we knew how to do. But paintings were real. Paintings were made from my unreasonable and invisible emotions. If executed well, a painting was capable of language.
I became a painter.
The End.
On writing a biography:
Much to the irritation of many a teacher I have hugely ignored the exact requirements of an assignment~and much to the irritation of teachers of mathematics, science and history I sketched in the margins through every lecture. What they didn't understand was that was how I listened.
