The moment I stepped into Grethe's house, I knew I'd entered an artist's home.
I was enveloped by paintings, sculpture, sketches, and photography. Some pieces brought whimsy, a welcome reprieve from the enormous emotions stirred by the strangers I met on Grethe's walls.
The feeling I get when I am in Grethe's home is profound. I've felt this way only once before, in another artist's house many years ago. Grethe doesn't just do art, she doesn't collect art, she doesn't showcase art. She truly lives and breathes it.
I wish I could have met her husband. His art fills this house as well.
Grethe took out her pain and anger on tile when Jim died.
This post was not planned. The photos were hurried on a recent afternoon, to be shown in a small, social circle of friends but as I looked at them, their scope, their emotion . . . I had to show them to you even though they don't do justice.
That explained, I saved the best for last.
Here's a sneak peek at Grethe's latest painting, masterful even unfinished. I adore it. I adore her too.