Wooded river valleys, prairies, and small lakes surrounded by hills that changed during the seasons from green to gold to white were the landscapes of my childhood. Since I had not traveled even to the far shore of the Mississippi River, the mountains and deserts of the West held an irresistible attraction. This painting of an afternoon in November was the result of my first encounter with the Badlands of Nevada. A man, or a woman, alone except for a little dog, are walking to somewhere as a storm closes in. This was years ago. I felt at the time that no further explanation was necessary. I feel the same now.
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Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar.
Antonio Machado, Campos de Castilla. 1912