Ten years ago today, I finished this - a portrait painted by me but drawn by the subject - and apparently received this excerpt from a cherished (really smart and really nice) former student. Same person.
May it not be that some day from this dream of time, this chronicle of smoke, this strange and bitter miracle of life in which we are the moving and phantasmal figures, we shall wake? Knowing our father's voice upon the porch again, the flowers, the grapevines, the low rich moons of waning August, and the toling bell--and to know we live, that we have dreamed and have awakened, and to find in our hands some object like this real and palpable, some gift out of the lost land and unknown world as token that it was no dream - that we have really been there? And there no more to say.
-Thomas Wolfe, 1935
kds & ss 10"ish x 8"ish acrylic on hard to know november 2001