Chinese Garden in Spring

Waiting for the advent of spring. Nobody around. Water tumbles to the stream below. Some geese fly across the pond. The San Gabriel mountains rise in the haze beyond. At some point if you paint long enough you arrive at place where the paint and brush play themselves as keys on piano. Your fingers and wrist move with your feelings from second to second. Paintings are the accumulation of a thousand notes performed. They have a sound that we interpret with our eyes.