I used to think home was a unique place in space and time. A building. A house. And a garden around it. And certainly s house and a garden around it remains a great source of inspiration for me.
After years of traveling, I realized that home was what you make of the place where you are. Any place where you are. A bouquet of tulips my wife brings from the flower market to our hotel room. A bistro in Paris when I sip “un café” with old friends. Charles Aznavour signing » À Paris au mois d’août » on the iPod to anywhere. Home is wherever I sit with pen and paper. Scrible. scrible…
In summer, I leave the door and the windows wide-open. Bees fly in for a visit and never stay very long. If the weather gets really nice, I set the easel on the porch overlooking the stream that comes down from the mountain. And I paint house a house, a home I found in Provence and irises from my neighbour’s garden. The dog Flanelle sits next to me for a moment, then disappears for an hour. He returns soaking wet from a dip in the lake.