When my Grandson, Tyler, was a toddler (he'll be ten next month), he loved to play with a collection of wooden blocks made of indestructable hard woods. Heavy and cumbersome as they were, over the years and many moves, I managed to squirrel away these blocks. They are from my children's childhood. They were saved with the hope of replaying the familiar scene of adult and child building fantastic environments together.
After each building session with Tyler, I thought of documenting these imaginary structures (completed with touches of rowdy cowboys, carnivorous dinosaurs and zooming cars) not only for their playfullness and inventiveness but knowing changes were coming: from the immediate swipe of the child's hand and the adult's knowledge of childhood's brevity. I never did take the photographs but the block collection remains.
Yesterday, I traveled to North Andover to Smolak Farm for a painting session. Cold, gusty winds greeted me as I stepped from my car. High on a ridge, I looked out over a beautiful vista; the farm with its pond and grazing Canada geese, the impressive illuminated white barn with its outbuildings, acres of orchards, with dark gentle hills and fair weather clouds as a back drop.
Painting these bucolic scenes is thought of by many as a quaint endeavor... but nothing lasts forever except maybe a painting.