Taking time out.

To record something of myself at seventy. Yes, seventy. A number, a state of being which seems to have caught me by surprise although I must have seen it coming. Anyway, it is what it is so one just continues come what may.

The painting is itself no matter what the season. Four paintings in winter.

It can be transcriptive; it can be mimetic: essentially it is a creative act which succeeds or fails in its ability to create an engagement beyond the making of something out of nothing.
It needs to be painting as painting, painting first - for me, subject, as in the view of my garden, second, and painting last.
Paintings don't last long with me. They are a means to an end but painting lasts because it is elusive; searched for; longed for.