I was never one to paint Chattel houses...only this one because it meant something to me.
As I child, I would run through this house and stop curiously to stare at the attempts my grandmother made to fix the floor. She would take the top of food cans and nail them over the hole. Sometimes they glittered when the sun filtered onto the floor through the windows.
I remember sitting across the road, on the pavement and comfortably painting this one Sunday morning. Passers by would come to look, and one vagrant kept me company for several hours.
That morning seems ages away now.
I have gone from painting what I see with my eyes...to painting what I see in my mind.
The Journey continues.