To take a painting that I have sweated on, leaned over for days, weeks, a month and more, something that became a constant in my life, and put it under glass in a frame is a bitter-sweet experience. No longer will I be able to touch the surface, feel the shifting layers of paint, be so close as to see the gleam along the edge of lines. Can't read whatever thoughts were penciled onto the back, no longer that personal connection between me and that piece of paper.

The other day a beam of sunlight struck the growing stack of framed paintings leaning against the wall. The paint glowed in that magical way, the same way paint glows in the light of a gallery. I was flooded with such emotion, tears came to my eyes. What it will be like to see all of this colour surrounding me, so much greater than I.