I spend most of my year perfectly happy as a resident of a small city, surrounded by countryside that I enjoy and love to paint. However, I am delighted when I have the opportunity to visit a huge city such as New York. The crowds, commotion, and cacophony alert my neurology. I quicken as I view the specialty shops and restaurants, the galleries and theatres.
I am vastly entertained by the drama of street vendors, the schleps pushing carts of merchandise through the streets, and the United Nations of people flooding along the sidewalks, flowing around anything or anybody who might be in their path. On my last visit to what residents think of as the centre of the universe, I observed a man deliver a damaging kick to the back door of a car that had cut off a group of pedestrians, followed by “Hey theya, people woking hea”.
The spot that I painted here joins my regular life to this frantic metropolis time. At the edge of Central Park, that countryside in the city, there is a balance of quiet and chaos. At this spot, even the occasional horse plods by, pulling a carriage of tourists not Mennonites.