I've got it bad. And that ain't good. A while back I said if Winslow Homer were alive today, I fear I'd be a groupie. I think I meant it. My God, that man could paint.
I've spent the last hour lost in cyberspace, pouring over images of his paintings on a new website I found just this afternoon. I thought I'd died and went to heaven. They are everything good about American painting. I may be prejudiced, but I know what moves me and his stuff moves me like no other.
I'm going to be posting a singular painting from time to time, much like I do on my sidebar. They will be chosen simply by what strikes me in that moment, that day. Like visual poems. Some poems are written and some are painted. It is, after all, National Poetry Month.
I should probably tell you, they might continue after April.
Up to now, you've been very patient regarding my obsession and I appreciate it very much. Please do me the kindness of pretending I'm not an addict and that no intervention will be necessary.
Remember to click on the image and view it larger, she said, rather obsessively.