Ghetto Cowboy art is out the door. Quite like my oldest son.
Like arrows from the bow, I cannot hold anything more than a shadow, a warm feeling, memories of what I was listening to while painting it. I can only wave like the parent of a new college student, knowing they have just been rendered powerless in the future of their baby. And so, like parents, I have to trust that I pulled the bow back as hard and steady as I could, aimed true, and gave it my soul's best efforts. Then, I have to forgive my inadequacies and let go.
So, for Ghetto Cowboy art, and for you, Clay, fly free. Free of me. Free.