The enameled plums are plump and deeply blue on a creamy underglaze. Camellias bloom over the edges. Three centuries haven’t wilted the pale...

My father was a fisherman. Before dawn, he surfcast off the coast of Montauk from a favourite boulder he liked to stand on. Ten years afte...

The tomatoes – seemingly ripened and reddened by the summer day – are cored and quartered. The holiest of trinities – fresh garlic ground by...

Whenever I visit the Detroit Institute of Arts, when I tire of taxing my mind and my eyes with contemplation of Cezanne’s portrait of his wi...

On one hand, the terrible heat of a midday sun in this broad and open meadow in July. On the other hand, the inviting denim-blue edge of the...