Its like spring. It happens almost every year--but usually in February--this sudden insertion of warmth in the middle of cold. Its a soft stone set in the metal of winter.
Tonight I went to the upper west side to meet two friends for dinner. We talked about my friend's new book, which hasn't been published yet. In it are allusions to one of my paintings (City of Green Fire) mixed in with visions and dreams of a garbage dump. It sounds odd, but is beautifully strange and appropriate.
He always says that art is a disproportionate act. I have found him to be accurate.
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