Life between the rolling hills of Southern France provided little entertainment on its own. Instead, one often manufactured one's own amusement. Such was the day that came with a burst of blazing orange after the long storms of April.
The sunflowers were in bloom.
Placid eyes of cornflower blue surveyed the field with a tepid stare. Though the grain was as rich a gold as he could have wished, his palette could not mimic the color. Setting down his brush at last, he left the painting to finish itself rather than subject it to the brutal shade of yellow that he had mixed. He retired to his table for coffee.
Approaching the field again, his mind was set. Picking up his brush, he positioned his chair so that the field beyond his easil could not be seen. Then in his mind's eye he viewed the scene of moments before when he had sat down to talk with his wife. He pictured the swirling auburn waves and mixed with care the color as he knew it. He painted his wife's hair into his art and though to him it blazed with the magma of her personality, people always remarked later upon how he had managed to paint so perfectly the field of wheat.