Martin Reber, a distant relative, tracked me down to share this picture of my father, for which I will be forever grateful.
We don’t know much about it, other than the scrawled message on the back suggesting it was taken within a few weeks of VE Day as my father’s unit moved into Germany. Dad was an artist, who had hauled his paints with him through war and into peace. He had found a porch, to paint in the natural light.
I have written before about my life amid art – “art as a verb – a thing not that has been done, but rather a thing that people do.”
See how his right hand, his brush hand, is blurred.