Keep in mind that I am a S L O W painter and I produce only a few offspring a year. That horrid virus in the late winter didn’t help, and it’s gardening season already. Because it is expected that artists show recent work, my small troop of child soldiers is being stretched like a supper served to surprise guests. In one case, I am retrieving some of them in one town and delivering them to a Georgian Bay gallery later that same day. So here I sit. I am not painting. I am plottingcampaigns. I consult calendars and I pore over maps. (To make things worse, three of the four shows demand a roll call a month early. Good grief.) I have a folder labeled “Where, What, When?” Honest, I do.
Having finally resorted to a paper calendar (thank God for paper), I draw lines with a ruler to figure out where my troops or scouting parties will be on a particular day. When the lines cross, I know I’m in trouble. And I can’t help thinking of Napoleon. I am wondering if Elba didn’t feel like a bit of a relief. I could use banishment to an island right about now. I plan to take paints and brushes.