Lighter, lighter still upon the darkness.

By the end of September, 1985, I had finished writing Giving, and mention this as there are three line drawings at the end of that effort that pretty much indicate where I was at that time. The first is of a

farmer digging sugar beets, the second, my old friend Vincent with half his ear off, and the third, of course, had to be Starry Night. These selections were without the realization of what they really meant at the time,

but I can say, now, their applicability strikes me as the simple life, the tortured artist and the dreams of another world. GIVING was not only a hard book to write, hell, it took me more than two years to write another word, it was an even harder life to live.

I was pulled in two, or more directions and the suffering of my long dead artist friend provided me a base from which I, once again, began doing what I felt I was suppose to do rather than what others thought I should be doing. As usual, this situation was fatal, although it took almost a year and a half before the final cards were played, more to follow on the subject as we make our way through.

One Sunday morning, in June of 1986, an add appeared in the newspaper indicating a shortage of homes for French exchange students, wishing to come to the states for the month of July, were in short supply.

Having been to France, and feeling a responsibility to pay back, we agreed to take in a border for the following month. My studio, which had become a haven, was dismantled, converted back to the bedroom

it was "suppose" to be, as preparations were made for our soon to arrive French visitor. This move made the most sense, as our French boy certainly couldn't sleep with our sixteen year old daughter, and the room was,

after all, a bedroom. The conversions were completed in rapid fashion and I soon found myself ensconced in my garage, with adequate working room, light, and warmth (it was the summer .of 1986). Giving up what

I'd really loved, that room. was where I really was after writing that book. I became a suffering, silent (of sorts) painter of impressions who'd lost his space.

Vincent Tassel, of course his name would be Vincent, hopped off the bus from France, via New York City, in early July of 1986, and a wonderful month of international exchange began and ended, with me, never to return to my studio space again.