Winter in Syracuse is not seasonal exactly; it's just winter and, during its six-month passage, it edges well past the property-line of at least two other seasons. I painted this picture in March, by which time snow had been on the ground for five months. Though it melted from time to time, huge drifts accumulated in supermarket parking-lots. Some of these didn't melt till May (or such is my recollection.)

I was very fortunate in that I had windows that afforded views from every direction, thus guaranteeing that the apartment was light-prone - something that cannot be said about Syracuse in general. From this window, I could see the gentle sweep of Grant Boulevard as it traipsed Eastward toward a snow-covered cemetery that was not visible as such for months on end.

There is something almost palpable about the sort of quiet you can get in the early morning two or three stories up. Even if it can be somewhat noisy down there, the sound mixes and mutes as it travels and a kind of pleasant hum ensues. Light itself seems to be part of that hum, with its own notes and scales. You can almost hear it falling and spreading, even as it seems to accentuate the quiet.

I painted this picture after a bout of depression that pretty much hobbled any effort at painting through the winter months. But I was able to crawl out of bed on that day and start. I'm glad I did. I have not lived in such a street-removed sort of place since and would have no record, not only of it, but of the feeling it engendered.