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Show 198 On the roof, the world seemed like the thick crushing Western light painted by Bierstadt: everything illuminated; nothing linear. Didn't Hunt care at all about Absolute Power corrupting Absolutely or Shocking Massive Abuses Dealt to Human Freedom? He picked the basketball from the stones and tossed it, blind, over the backboard, imagining a swish. He heard the leather thunk on the driveway's concrete and looked at the sky. In five hours, he would meet a plane carrying Sean and his father, then the three would fly to West Yellowstone, rent a car and drive it into The Park and to Lake Lodge. It was a trip. Family. Leah would join them on Friday. With Todd. It was getting away. Hunt had finished a series of paintings, had nothing, to speak of, that he was starting. He was on the roof of his house with no specific urgency, hearing a burglar » alarm tripped a block away. He started some eggs, then wandered up to his studio. The day, even with its itinerary, seemed structureless. In the all-glass corner of Hunt's studio, stood an easel and on the easel stood a canvas which had been spread very, very lightly with a gesso. Hunt had made a half dozen curvilinear sweeps on the canvas - again, very lightly - with a stick of charcoal. Studying it, he had no idea why he'd drawn them, no inkling of a possible intent. Another ghost, he thought. Another ghost painting. Back in the kitchen, his soft boiled eggs were hard. He salted, peppered them generously and convinced himself that that, really, was the way he liked breakfast: good firm eggs. It was . . . what? something: Classical! Hunt |