{Winston Churchill} Sits in his farm house studio painting with the mist slowly rising off the lawn. Birds sing their morning songs. French doors frame his view. His favourite subject, a pond, is unobstructed, the key factor in deciding where to position his chair. During the colder months he sits inside and paints with the light from the window to the sound of the fire crackling with its ethereal tempo. When the weather improves he pulls the esile outside to sit on a simple stone patio and take in the full landscape with the pond in the foreground, the far off foothills acting as a backdrop to pastures left unattended and yet forever changing. The scene makes for a picturiesc panorama, unblemished by artificial distractions. Inside his studio is full of the character one would expect from an eccentric. Finished and otherwise, frame canvas's lay against the walls with tidbits here and there, odd pieces to which only the curator knows and appreciates the story. Artifacts collected traveling some are gifts bestowed while others have been acquired by chance. On the mantel sits a vase with scenes of workers in the field and a pompous noble adorning his throne high above. Chipped and discoloured, the vase is a subtle reminder while some live with clean hands and polished boots others toil, a crack draws a line between the workers and the noble, an unintentional yet powerful divide; the stark contrasts in their experiences. He often wonders if the noble yearns for simplicity and direction, to be head down absorbed in your work. While the noble tends to matters of social details and organizational structures, seeming to enjoy the luxuries afforded his powerful position, the worker remains focused, methodical and consumed, entranced in skilled attention. While it maybe true the noble has spare time and resources to express and explore his passions, the worker has a rhythm and sincerity to his existence, tuned into the simple pleasures, though at times few and far between, each is momentous and rich. Small gestures between colleagues acknowledged with a nod or a tip of the hat mark a comraderie to which the noble knows nothing off, lost in expectation and entitlement small rituals pass by without acknowledgment, moments of connection lost amongst the excess. To sit and paint in his studio without distraction is to find the rhythm his world beyond this sanctuary lacks, with its constant whirl of distractions and draws to his attention, the responsibilities and politics of daily existence. With his paint brush he is lost in another world, one to which the final brush stroke only reveals the slightest hint. For it is not the finished and framed accomplishment to which he seeks recognition, it is the space in between, the timeless moments of absorption and defiance. Consumed in his work with no distinction to mark his status. A simple act of creating. And being. He paints to be entranced in a masters skilled attention.