Usually my ideas for paintings always start with writings. And the writings about magnolias started because I was in the habit this summer of sort of stealing them.
They are not hard to get. You can snap it right off the tree and it tumbles to the ground with a soft plop and a swish like it's swishing its' skirts. Then you hold it to your heart, cup it like a breast, or like a little fragile white puppy. It smells to me like my great aunt or my childhood friend's grandparent's house, or like an old fashioned old southern lady. Then you run away with it and hope the people who live in the house don't see you, but it glows in the dark.
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