A spring morning – well, br I only need to say the words? br I’ll picture mine, you picture yours – br champagne bubbling in the blood and in the mind, br hopes and possibilities flooding freshly in.. br br but a spring mid-afternoon… like today, like now: br a subtle balance of the elements; br the sunlight bathes the room, but gently, br with its promise; yet, br there’s a timeless peace with it br that’s like a life surveyed; yet br free of thought, of comparison, or of regret: br br the six loved paintings that adorn the walls br bought for a song, when art was like a song – br they love the gentle sunlight, and it in turn loves them; br five artists painting their sunlit peace, their happiness; br (two very different ones from the man br who lives so humbly halfway up br the mountain hills he rambles every day): br three oils; one gouache; one watercolour; and one pastel; br br they all but two have clouds in them br as they’re all landscapes; br one that hasn’t, has a haze as if br the painter’s painting the summer wind, in those high hills.. br the other is a cloudless morning’s peace, br the bend of a river in mid-France; br the river…it cannot be, just painted oil? br it’s water seen as by a pure clear soul… br br and the clouds – caught in an impossibility of time, br play out an endless drama of the elements; br timeless in the peace of, now, a slightly later br springtime afternoon; almost with a touch...