Paintings are a diary of an artist’s life. This was the last picture I painted before a fall. There are events in ones life that destroy you a little. Not unlike the towns tallest tree brought down by lightning, no one could believe it possible, least of all the tree. An artist benefits immeasurably from the potency of an intact ego, more essential than paint, brush and canvas. The notion of indestructibility, a chimera as it turns out. The muse at hand, a sturdy sculptural form, a construct of my former illusion. There is no doubt in her sanguine expression as she gazes into a mirror unseen and prepares for the evening ahead. The space resulting from her arms framing her head and elbow pivoting on her knee, create a passage for the background color to enter and flow throughout the picture. Her beau colic gaze is satisfied by her muliebral reflection in the cheval glass not seen. This contentedness produces a smile which the picture evolves around. So sweet is her delight as she beholds her own visage. The behemoth unfeminine hand( required to span the distance from wrist to the part of her hair)is adequately countervailed by the felicity of her expression. In ‘Parting’ no tract of paint is left unfettered. Each precinct of color is layered with tonal and hue fluctuations, textured sand and grit ,particularly the whitish body. The net effect ? it is not really white. The slight tonalities under and over the white include varying light values of every other hue in the picture inviting an interdependence throughout. I remember how I felt the night I finished this picture. I am wondering if I will ever feel that way again.