Maybe it’s because I tend to be practical, and brutally honest—at least to myself. I think I tend to temper honesty with delicacy for others, and I do allow myself flights of fancy when my mind isn’t required to use all its ability on the job at hand. But I also tend to be a bit stubborn in odd areas.
One such odd area is my reluctance to accept orange skies for example, or the purple and pinkish-yellow glow of Kinkead’s cottages in art. That, for some reason, irks me whereas Picasso’s two-eyed profiled portraits do not. I’m all for creative expansion and illusion, but when something is supposed to be real, I want it real. Then of course, my self-righteous attitude is all blown to hell over and over again as I go out to be greeted by a sky of grey, mauve and salmon.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology