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Beginning 60 Years of Practice—First Quarter/Nineteen Years pg42
Colorful companion to my memoir The Incompetent Psychic
When I was six Mom asked, “Honey, would you like a children’s art class?”
“No,” I replied, “I want an adult art class.” She called around and found a group that would accept a child. The Painting in the Park class of pleasant grown-ups is a happy memory The first session I painted a stump in Stanley Park. When it was finished I went around to quietly look at the other easels. I could see who was better than me (most of them), and a few who were worse. Being critical started early, too. — From Chapter 2
Here’s another rather disturbing painting in the ancient roll of childhood art my mother Joan stored in the garage rafters for over 50 years. It might be the stump painting referenced here, or I might have done a sad stump series. I am only one generation removed from a family of loggers who helped clearcut Vancouver Island, so there is much to atone for.
I have no idea why I painted this image sixty years ago, but am pretty sure this is not a dance of celebration. I am not a Christmas tree person, either, but I do like to plant them.
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