© 2010 Gregory MacAvoy

97 of 100


30 x 44 inches.
Oil, ink and oil and chalk pastels on paper.

I had come to the house at precisely the right moment. Any sooner and I would have made a fool of myself with the wine. As it happened I’d never met a toymaker, and never really wanted to before that night in February. The wind conducted a winter suite that would have depressed the hell out of any one indoors so late in the season, but out on the pine dense hillside the driving snow brought the scent of benzoin gum and played chimes off the icy tree branches. Through the squall the house seemed only a hump in the mountain with windows like glowing, inviting eyes.

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