I decided not to paint my father in his study although the painting
of violets that my mother did hung in there for as long as I can
remember. Echoed in the background of my father's portrait, it would have
been a nice touch, and at first I visualized him working. Books.
disorderly piles of scholarly journals and manuscripts. Surrounding his
round, intelligent face.
But instead I painted him where he seemed most alive to me when I was a
child. At the foot of the old rope tow. With long wooden skis upright
beside him.
He has just taken them off. They tower over him as skis did in those
days. He is knocking snow from the skis with mittened hands. His checks
red from the wind and exhilaration.
In the background, a snow covered hill somewhat primitively depicted.
The rope tow slashing into it, moving slowly straight up into the sky.