I haven’t traveled in a very long time. I’ve been missing that; packing, temporary goodbyes, airport/train/taxicab anonymity, temporary new hellos, getting used to unfamiliar air and nighttime sounds, perspective shifts, new goodbyes, home again home again.
I love revisiting this body of work, painted in an old convent over a short year in a tiny french village I moved to in a September.
We had a market, two boulangeries, a post office, one tabac, and the train station
the countryside went back and forth from wide open fields of cows with wide open faces, to sherwood forests lined with wildflower trenches. I ran a lot back then, I jogged through the transition from fall to winter to spring, I got to breathe an entire breadth of seasonal airs.
the convent was cold stone with a warm kitchen. all the colors are here in these paintings. they feel so old and soft to me.
I miss that home. I can see everything I left behind, simplified in form, scent, sound; garden, staircase, farm, road, bread, milk, piano, stone.
One day I arrived, and then I was there, and suddenly I was home again.