Even though it’s impossible, I know he conjured that squall. Maybe the fuss embarrassed him, or perhaps it was his idea of a joke.
Bosc and Bartlett pose upright, atilt with little necks poking sideways to flaunt their flesh the way robust women boast voluptuous curves. No wonder
This will be my final woodblock. Bleary colors squeezed from the operating room, flung desperately in odd angles. One last still life, frantically rendered