Ernst Primeau

On Saturday, I spent the afternoon with Ernst Primeau, who was an artist of some reknown, but who has recently, about a year ago, given up painting and is now lonely, miserable and in denial and whose son, Robert, has just returned from Europe to Boston to tell him of his marriage to a widow with three children and four grandchildren.  Ernst is now a pissed off step great grandfather.  He did not have much good to say, but his life stands up like a bleak backdrop against joy, a reminder of the meaning of love.  I decided to try to write his story.  He is cooperating, although quick to cast aspersions on me and everyone else.  His story is underway.  Maybe his outlook will improve before I'm done writing.