He loved to paint. Something moved him. More than creative. Misunderstood. Loved in death. Ignored in life. Lucky for him he had friends who sat for him and plants that grew for him. He painted himself a lot when he couldn’t find sitters. I can relate to that.
Author: duckshots
Lapsed lawyer. Reader. Photographer. Jewish. Strongly attached to loving, caring, wife-Sharon. Working at remaining relevant. Hoping that my body and mind outlive my dreams. Maybe something I blog will make some sense.
View all posts by duckshots
