Outside, the hired lawn cutters unblinkingly beheaded the prized “naked Lady” (Lycoris squamigera) flowers along the sidewalk, twice. Stems and leaves cleaved in a second, I mourned them, and more. Why this obliviousness in the face of sun? All that dormancy, winter strife, ferocious promise of crazy scent and color- for nothing? From the fallen dregs, new buds appeared. Painting became this.

Each week- a flower in its brief dominion; each painting embattled with ecstasy and loss- this is the dialogue between work and play, beginnings and ends, youth and decrepitude. And, in the end, this is about Something Else.