Andrew

Splat, paint met canvas with anger, color upon color. Frustration. Streaking his hand across the palette he mashed it into the canvas. Easel teetering. Seething. Sixth decade and his landscapes remain unsold. A few commissioned portraits pay the bills. Turning, he strode across the room and scrubbed his hands in the sink. Staring out, the poplar trembling in the wind. Returning to the canvas he sees it. Raw emotion.