It's hard to know whether something is an ending, or a beginning. Not everything. Just some particular circumstances. When I jumped in my truck and headed out of Florida in the fall of 1989 was it the ending of a phase, or the beginning of a new period? I never came back. But did I know it at the time? How did I actually see that journey? I think I saw it as the end of a story. The final sentences of a lengthy chapter in my autobiography. That's how it appears in the fall of 2023. It didn't seem that way in those strangely confusing days. I never saw it as the start of something marvelously new and exciting. Not at all. Both beginnings and endings have a frail, weakened quality. Like something either dying, or just having been born. As an artist I constantly experience situations that can't easily be defined. Is this painting or sculpture the start of a new series, or is it the final attempt of an old series? It takes a little time before the riddle is solved. A circle doesn't have an end point, or a beginning point, on its circumference. Starts and stops are meaningless for a circle. The same is true in the life of an artist. It's all merely a permanent jumble of relative endings and beginnings.