Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.
If I am going to be either candid or honest, I can't paint my way out of a paper bag, a phone booth or a tardis, but that is quite all right. This morning, my brushes and the colors in those lovely little jars and round tubs and tubes are calling in the voice of the island sirens, and a little color in late February is a right fine thing.
I am running away today, but without ever setting a foot beyond the threshold of the little blue house in the village and into deep snow.
All mixed up together on my palette, the primary reds and blues and golden yellows are sublime, and even the exuberantly spattered floor is arty stuff, much more so than what I will be smearing on paper, canvas and all over myself. What a great splendid sticky "hallelujah" sort of mess I am about to make - just the thing for a gray day.