The End of the Day in Florida

On my way to the 7-Eleven (a trip I take a few times a day), I walked through the empty studio courtyard. The amber-colored light was falling on the hibiscus and the silver-button bushes; the air was warm, had some salt in it and it smelled, as it often does, of soap thanks to the laundromat three buildings away.

Late afternoons in Florida have the stillness and glow of de Chirico paintings, except here the sky has more range. Since I am leaving soon, I stopped to notice it, and while looking around at the palm trees and sandy soil, I wondered why I paint winter landscapes.

I wasn’t there long when the repair shop next door, which usually closes early, began grinding something. It was annoying at first but then it helped settle some sort of order, an order in which the winter paintings didn’t seem as odd. However, it was not a relief.