Wounded by his thousand years or so

Old Hollowman retires in pain and tears

Upon his own green thorny bough 

Until he laughing rises

Ready for a thousand more

And while all beauty drains from this grey shady world another waits 

Filled with endless glades of gold

No this painting isn’t about that, it just happened. But this poem seems to sit with it

Also this painting was a struggle. A lot of tension and frustration and release. Like working with a very slow chemical reaction in a photographic dark room.

Also a big part of the bigger problem is responding to previous work but also not responding to it