As I look out my window this morning, the landscape seems to have been painted with a thick brush, heavily charged with grey and brown and ochre pigments. My eyes search for familiar shapes amidst the abstractions of branches and leaves and indistinct tops of pine trees. The pines, especially, appear wrapped in cloudy, translucent cellophane as they attempt to pierce the fog, in the hope that a clear blue sky awaits just beyond the murky morning overcast.
The language of an accomplished painter, borrowed by a talented writer, can better describe the world than the sharpest eyesight can experience it. The ability to replicate the world in which we live with paint and language is almost cruel in its beauty.