44/40 in Light

Phil Grout

I always thought I wanted to be a doctor like my father. But after five unsuccess-
ful majors, the Dean at Denison University suggested I try something other than
academic studies. I enlisted in the Navy. I was1A in 1966, and Vietnam was
coming into view. I thought it would be best to see 'Nam from the water instead of the land. During a
boot camp interview, the personnelman broke it to me that I got a 17 out of 100 on my mechanical test.
"There's no way in hell we're going to let you on a submarine as you requested," he said. "You'll sink the
damn thing." And then he talked about public relations and the shortage of journalists. I thought fast
and said, "Well, I've been a reporter for two years." (I'd never written a news story in my life). He bought
my story and pronounced me a "journalist." Two months later I was pushed off the end of the pier and
found myself on the Gulf of Tonkin off the coast of Vietnam conducting my first interview as a "journal-
ist". I was packing an Instamatic camera around my neck. With help from an officer who had one jour-
nalism course in college, I got the story out. It was quite a thrill to see my first news story in Pacific Stars
and Stripes on Paul Nitze, the Secretary of the Navy, who had just crossed paths with some tinhorn Navy
reporter whose only writing experience was penning several soppy poems in college. When I look back
the path stretching 44 years, I give thanks for the little lie that got my foot in the journalism door (and
more than once in my mouth). It's been a twisting trail filled with light. I quickly learned it wasn’t the
images of war I was hunting, but more the face of humanity.

It was a Sunday morning in November 1966. Usually I'd be out with Dean Minnich, my first photo
mentor. But this day I was on a photo "hunt" by myself working some back alleys in Sasebo, Japan
when one of those "ah ha!" moments popped up in front of my camera. Three elderly gentlemen were
enjoying their cigarettes and conversation as they sat on a park bench.(1.) I knew then
that I wanted to be behind a camera for the rest of my life. I wanted to be a photojour-
nalist. And it was Dean who asked me to come to Carroll County in 1970 to work at
the Hanover Sun in Westminster as a photographer and reporter. That was 40 years
ago.

What kept me here were the country folks like Charlie Shriver who used his team of
Percheron draft horses to farm his Wakefield Valley Farm. His fellas, (2.) like Pete
and Jake and others, were kin to Charlie, and I can still see my friend hitching up his
team, looking out to the west to that first field he was going to hit.

I was drawn to old John and Irene Wolf and their stories about the past and his love
for old farm tools. The three of us became friends. I needed a Thanksgiving
illustration. They had much to be thankful for (3.) and were glad to ablige.

While scouting photos near Gamber, I walked back a farm lane toward
an interesting looking barn. And from one of the sheds came a sight that
suggested I was watching an old soldier return from the Crimean War. It was old Carroll
Niner (4.) in his torn poncho carrying one of his hens.

The police dispatcher said some kids were "in a clothes dryer" at the
laundromat. Sure enough there was a kid in one of the dryers. He hadn't spotted my
camera, and I just waited quietly for the action to unfold. Just as the officer opened
the dryer door, out I popped and grabbed the shot (5.) that got me a first place feature
photo with the Maryland-Delaware-D.C. Press Association.
 I was late to a barn fire once. By the time I got there, the barn was down and smoldering, but
I'll never forget that farmer doing what he could by taking a hominy (6.) can full
of water and tossing it on the remains of his barn.

January 20, 2009, will always stick in my memory when I was part of a crowd
that gathered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to hear (not see) Barrack Obama get
sworn in as our new president. And there beside me was a woman who traveled from
North Carolina with her young daughter, to witness the historic ceremony (7.)

A disraught young man had a fight with his girlfriend and had barricaded himself in
his mother's home with quite an arsenal of weapons. The shooting was sporatic, but
lasted on into the night. I knew I was probably going to have only one shot.(8.) I got
it, moments before a state trooper held a shot gun on me for what seemed like an eter-
nity before Chief of Police Sam Leppo rescued me.

It was Veterans Day 1985 at the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial when a handful of us
Vietnam vets rode down to D.C. for the occasion. I remember clearly Bernie Masino and I
walking along The Wall seeing a small crowd headed our way. There was a gray haired man
in front. "Bernie," I said, "it's Westmoreland". General William Westmoreland scanned the
wall and stooped to get a closer look. He found what he was after—the name of his
nephew, etched forever in black granite. (9.)

The fire/police scanner announced there was a house fire with two infants trapped in Union
Mills, about eight miles away. Weeks later I saw the Fire Marshall's report. The young
mother had wanted to find a new home for her husband and babies. She was tired of shar-
ing the home with her in-laws. So she started a small fire in the rear laundry room and went
out front to get the mail. She figured there would just be a little fire and some smoke which
would force her and her family to find a new home of their own. But the fire spread quickly.
Her babies were trapped in a front room. They both died of smoke inhilation. And when the first baby
was brought out, I can still hear the screams—still see the outstreched hand—(10.) from a mother who
was too late.

In 1991 I had a happy accident in my photo lab. I invented a technique of converting

the silver embedded in the emulsion coating of photographic paper to another form of silver
which would leave a florescent, multi-colored trail across the image. I call a photoglyph or light
etching. Dawn Dancer (11.) is one of the best examples.

Dad was always my champion. His favorite image of mine was the portrait of Sister
Helen (12.) at St. John's Church in Westminster. This same framed print hung in a
special place beside my father in his office for many years. It's a priceless possession.

Speaking of Dad, how about Herb "Daddy" Sell hittin' those hot licks
on his keyboard. For decades Herb was the choral music director at
Westminster High School. By moonlight, and now daylight after his
retirement, he's taking his jazz sound around the southern Pennsylvania
northern Maryland circuit. He and the fellas were warming up the
crowd in this shot (14.) during a recent Westminster Flower and Jazz Festival. "Daddy" and
his combo almost brought down our little log house for a party when I turned 40.
-2-
 Mary Garrison could have been the poster girl for the Maryland Milk Producers, AARP
or even the American Rodeo Association. That's what I've told folks more than once—that
Mary was the 1982 grand champion senior "bulldogger" at the Carroll County Senior Rodeo.
She really just loved her cows. I met her in 1982 when I was trolling for photos at the Carroll
County 4-H/FFA Fair. (15.) We need more Mary Garrisons. She's become the poster girl for
my journey.

I can't remember how she acquired the name "Howard," but that's it—Howard W. Hubbard.
I was on assignment at a large senior condominium complex in Towson, Maryland when the
wait staff thoroughly surprised "Howard" with this birthday cake. (16.) The famous poem
"Desiderata" ends with ". . .with all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it still is a
beautiful world. Strive to be happy." These three seniors found that beautiful world right
here. I'm so blessed to have found them and their happiness.

ML and I live right over that ridge line of trees exploding with the ruby red mackrel
sky at sunup on the day after Christmas 2008. We were watching the morning news
and saw the approaching sunrise growing over Chesapeake Bay during the weather
report. I told my wife, "I have about five minutes to catch this one. It's going to be a
killer." I raced a mile up Patapsco Road, set up my tripod and "nailed it." (17.)

And for sunsets, there were the rolling fields of ripe soybeans at the intersection of Rts. 32
and 97 in Westminster last fall. The "rubber neckers" at that busy crossroads couldn't really
appreciate the full view of those fields on "fire" (18.) and the "flames" lapping at sundown.

By now you can see I step back and forth between the real world of people and
that of the good earth. There are times when I stumble upon, say, a dead sycamore (19.) in a
stream flanked by live trees moments before sundown holding onto fall with traces of red,
yellow and gold, and wonder what it would have been like to have taken the path as
a wildlife/nature photographer. But I already know the answer. I'd miss people.

I'd miss finding people plopped in the middle of a memorable sundown at

Ice Planet in Eldersburg. (20.) It was shot to illustrate a story on sno-ball stands for
Carroll Magazine.

There are people who travel from all over the world to this pasture to see the mares
of Hanover Shoe Farms. They are the standard of excellence for standardbred horses
trained with the unusual gait of a "pacer" used in the sport of sulky racing. I
happened to travel up from Westminster and crossed over into Pennsylvania to find
the brood mares grazing in this dawn's golden light. (21.)

Sometimes it doesn't matter that my drawing ability is still what is was when I was in
kindergarten. I stumbled upon this scene (22.) at the edge of Uniontown with Jimmy
Saylor "skinning" one of his mules, heading back Bob Sabastian's lane through the
"sketch" of a first snow.

But then there are times when an image just drops in my lap. It was ten days ago, Sunday,
October 24, 2010. I was printing for this show in my studio when I heard a loud roar
outside. I heard it again and recognized it. "Fred (he's my four-legged assistant), it's a bal-
loon." A hot air balloon (23.) was actually drifting over the peak of fall right above our
home. -3-
 There are times, say in a long grocery line, when I see a child screaming, "PLEASE,
MOMMY, MORE M&M'S," when I smack myself on the forehead and tell the man
behind me, "I forgot." "Forgot what?" he asks. "To have kids." And we both laugh. But,
you see, I do have children—from all over the world, like Beth Richardson (30.) sleep-
ing in the grass with her dog Liver Lips and her cat what's-her-name. Beth grew up and
became a cartographer for National Geographic and did a chart for my third book, Harvest of Hope.

And Christine Savoy will forever be frozen in my mind.(31.) I was in Southern Maryland
on assignment, driving back roads, "trolling" again for photos when I spotted a man sitting
on his porch. I got out and talked with him. When I felt a tug on my pant leg. I looked
down and there was Christine. She wanted me to come with her to see something. She
wanted to lead me to a nearby abandoned house. She took me back the center hallway and
opened a creaking door. Then she plopped herself on a chair and clutched her prized doll
baby in that perfect slant of light.

(32.) In 1977 I was commissioned to write and illustrate a book on Plains, Georgia and its connection
with Jimmy Carter. I ended up living in an abandoned sharecropper's home and coming up
with a book on one particular farming family, the Bacons. David Bacon, grandson of my
central character, kept to himself with his twin sister. They literally invented their own
language no one else could understand. Well, no one accept David's cocker spaniel,
"Fluffy."

Twelve years later I found myself "trolling" the refugee camps of northern
Sudan. "My"children are still there in my mind, like the two brothers I found in an aide
station at a camp named Hillat Kousa outside Khartoum. Kneeling in the dirt was "Little
Brother" (33.) covered with tiny sand flies, so weak he could hardly moan. Yet from the
shadows, "Little Brother" was wrapped in the arms of the brother who had remained stead-
fast during their hundreds of miles journey after being forced by the soldiers from their cattle
camp in the south.

The stacks of images I brought home from Sudan started to suck me through my lens and I found it difficult to
see where I stopped and the "Little Brothers" began—a dangerous trap for a photojournalist. I put down my
camera for what seemed like an eternity. But then I started to literally reground myself in the good earth. I
moved rocks and built a Japanese garden at home. And slowly images from the garden began to emerge. It was
no longer painful for me to look through that window on the world. My world was coming back into bloom.

Instead of fire engines and amulances, I found myself chasing butterflies and watching them through my
lens get "swallowed" up by giant purple hostas along the path to our home.

Slowly I weaned myself from film and tiptoed into the digital age. I taught myself how
to use a computer and began to make images with this new tool. And typical of me, I
found new uses for these strange new tools. I admired a particular branch of Bleeding
Heart in our garden and I wondered if I could use my
scanner as a camera?
TaDa! (29.)

-4-
 Our garden has a collection of Japanese maple trees that operate on their own schedule (as
every other living thing does). Right now, our forest is just about bare of leaves, but our maples
are just getting ready for the postlude of (30.) scarlet, orange and yellow. Fall is still a mystery
to me. I hope it always will be. To think that color was there all along, and then the chloro-
phyll is nice enough to fade away and let color take center stage.

From the garden I got back into the darkroom and continued to find my light. In a way
it was like the beginning, watching Dad's images float to the surface of his magical paper
as photos of our family came to life. But what I found in my photo lab was even more
mystical than what surfaced in Dad's. I was taking old negatives and giving them life as
strange paintings. Teams of horses and mules (31.) were plowing new ground and so
was I as a chemical painter.

I was able to transport a waterman dipping for crabs at Solomon's Island and mysteriously place
him in a sea (32.) of amber and gold.

I could take a horse and cowboy from Idaho and drop in a sky that resembled the
hide of a white face Hereford steer (32A.), like the herd he was trying to get loaded on
that cattle truck.

The strange chemicals and my imagination could take Ridgely Thompson with his horse and
wagon and put them against a sundown (32B.) he could never dream about. But as one visitor
to my mobile street gallery at Georgetown Market said, "These photoglyphs, they're just tricks.
It's your black and white that speak to me."

And they were starting to speak to me as well. Like Leo Entwistle, the head elephant
caretaker of the Hoxie Brothers Circus. I crossed paths with Leo in the early 80's at
the Carroll County Ag Center. He had a particular fondness for his girlfriend, Bonnie,
the biggest elephant in the herd. I walked up to Leo as he leaned back against Bonnie,
cocked his hat perfectly and stared at me forever (33.). While Mary Garrison and her
cow are my poster girl. Leo (and that patch of Bonnie) is my poster boy for this journey.

One of the prettiest places I've come across is the sand-swept town of Monopadu with its
European architecture near the southern tip of India. I was documenting the lives of basket-
makers who sell their wares to SERRV International in New Windsor. I will never forget the
young woman dousing herself with wash water as she took her daily bath.(34.)

I have another serrogate child—grandchild—who lives on top of Welsh Mountain

in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. The flow of water from the hydrant she drinks from is
crystal pure, like Emi (35.) who takes a break from Sunday afternoon play to quench her
thirst.

I drove past her home on Stone Chapel Road and saw her carrying a coal
skuttle. I stopped and we talked as if she were my grandmother and I was
stopping by after school. I kept my camera in the car. On the next visit I made a portrait
(36.) of Mae Chrissinger reading from her Bible by bare light bulb overhead. After she died,
her daughter presented me with her mother's Bible. But it was on another visit when I held
onto the image I still keep in my heart: old woman, bare light, black gym shoes, apron,
contended smile—the goodness of a simple life.
-5-
Ever since I traipsed up the back stairway in an ancient nursing home to visit my "Nanny" (my
father's mother) in the late 50's, I've been torn between a fear of such facilities and my love
for elderly people. I realize that none of us are going to make it out of this place alive, but
I would prefer snagging one more photo before keeling over. They'd find me belly up, with a
big grin cause it was a good day to die, and I'd still be cradling my camera ready for the next
shot. I don't want to hole up in a place where my only company is a toy doll. (37.)

This middle room is a collection of some favorite friends from Nicaragua and Ghana. When
Hurricane Joan hit the Atlantic coast of Nicaragua in 1988 it cut a wide swath of destruction
to the country which was already struggling after years of civil war. I lived for two months in a
tent in the ruins of an evangelical church in Bluefields while working on a book, Seeds of Hope.
I took a side trip north to check on the growth of some corn seeds I bought a group of farmers.
On the voyage in an open cockpit boat I discovered a mother and child (38.) huddled under a pancho in
the midst of a sweet rain.

During an earlier trip to Nicaragua I was working in the northern warzone near Jalapa. Strolling
through a resettlement village I met a young woman who was tending her wood fire in the typical
mud adobe stove, or horno. From my imperfect Spanish, smiles and gestures, she understood
I wanted to "make" her picture. (39.) It's not just the strength in her face, which still
impresses me, it's that bulge of her radial artery on her left wrist which speaks volumns about
the toil she has seen. That bulge only comes from years of backbreaking manual labor. And
besides, for me, the image is reminiscent of those done by early 20th Century photographer
Edward Curtis who captured the strength of Northwest Native Americans in rich sepia tone.

Several years ago I was comissioned to illustrate and write a book, Harvest of Hope, on the
life of cocoa farmers in Ghana. I lived in the village of Ohaho where the majority of its
3,000 citizens were cocoa farmers. The oldest of which was an 86-year old woman named
Afua Nyame. She still farmed her grove of cocoa trees and could scamper across a downed
mammoth Onyina tree like a teenager. Her hands (40.) resembled dried cocoa and held sto-
ries that were repeated round many village cook fires.

The cocoa pods are picked, broken open to reveal the seeds covered with a sweet white gel-
antenous membrane, piled up and covered to begin drying. After three days the seeds are
placed in sacks and carried (41.) to the village drying racks to completely dry. As the seeds
are drying, they're also fermenting, giving off acetic acid fumes. The whole village smells of
sweet vinegar. It's a joyous time. There will be extra food and even treats.

She was a niece of my host family, the Bempongs. She would come by the
family compound for some food from my farmer friend Helena Bempong. I can't remem-
ber her name. I will never forget her eyes. (42.)

B.K. and Margaret Asiamah quickly became friends with me. I passed their home to and
from my sleeping place and the Bempongs. There was much laughter at
the Asiamah's. Not only did they have a small planting of cocoa, they
also kept the village supplied with split bamboo fishtraps. (43.) Margaret explained the
fish could figure how to swim into the trap. They just could not figure how to get out,
and that was good.

-6-
Mary Kwayie is the sister-in-law to my host Helena. Mary sings much of the day while making soap in a
big black cauldron, pounding fu-fu in a wooden pestal (fu-fu is made from casava root and when properly
pounded and eaten it's like giving taffy to a dog. I never acquired the taste) But I loved
hearing this straping woman sing while she worked at her cook fire, splitting cocoa pods
with a machete or dancing 'round the fire with her two sons. The only time I wanted to be
deaf was when Mary had to leave for a funeral far away and we both knew I was leaving
the next day. So she sang me my farewell song. (44.)

I spotted Concepcion de la Blanca the first day I arrived in Bluefields, Nicaragua. It was his eyes—and
his gentle smile and moustache. I had some extra money and helped him get his fishing
nets repaired as well as his boat motor which had been damaged by the hurricane. In
Seeds of Hope I say goodbye to my friend, "Tomorrow you sail with the tide out to the
pretty fish, and I must go up river to a distant land and find my way back home. By
opening your heart to teach me the meaning of your name, you taught me the meaning
of life. Concepcion, (45.) you are the essence of goodness that was ever conceived to be."

On a previous trip to Nicaragua I stayed in the home of a woman who used her one kitchen table
to serve meals to truckers on their way south to Esteli and Managua. She also cooked on an horno, fired
by wood. Maria had cooking down to a science with her collection of port openings in her horno at
various distances from the fire. She would put pots or skillets on these openings to cook at different
temperatures. She could control the heat to her beans or carne asada better than
Paula Dean and her whizbang glasstop electric. But what has stayed with me all these
years is the way the light in Maria's kitchen fell across her as she sat at the edge of her
horno.(46.)

It was December 10, 1988 when the priest got the ham radio fixed in Bluefields, Nicaragua. Finally,
I could talk with my wife. When the transmission came through, it was clear as a bell and knocked me
into the arms of Father Paul. "Groutie, I'm so sorry. Jim just called and your dad passed
away about an hour ago." I knew it was coming, but to actually hear it knocked me back a
notch. We talked about the memorial and I made sure she picked me up some pipe tobac-
co. And then I walked to my good friend Winnie McClean. She was sad to hear the news,
and rocked me in her flour-covered arms. "Now, Fellipe, you go out back and see what's
there. I opened her back door and there was a collection of little peep-peeps that had just hatched. She
picked one up.(47.) The picture of new life brought a lift to my sadness.

There's a whole other world out there in the Southwest. Like nothing I've ever seen. For
one thing, the clouds are different. The sky is bluer. I was walking up a red dirt road (48.)in
New Mexico last year admiring the purple asters and yellow rabbit brush when the mother
of all clouds pop up in the northwest sky.

And just over the top of the hill was an ancient, whitewashed church (50.)
that was a perfect counterpoint to the rolling thundheads. If ever there was a
black and white scene, this was it. But I'm glad I got the color, too.

-7-
 I tagged up with an old Navy buddy in southern Utah. Oregon videographer Mark
Brown and I saw eachother for two very brief visits in 40 years. But two years ago
we made up for lost time and camped in the red rocks (49.) and canyons of Bryce,
Arches, Cap Reef and Canyonlands National Parks. Then we drove 900 miles to
catch Yellowstone for a week. Our cameras were smokin' after three weeks.

I've had some scares during these 44 years—but none like the day Brownie and I
walked out to Calf Creek Falls in Utah. I was typically lagging behind while shoot-
ing along the way, and I eventually lost Mark. I mean I lost Mark. I blew my dis-
tress whistle, but no Mark. And then I remembered he probably had his hearing aid
turned off. He finally popped out of the bushes with a look of "Whazup?" I didn't
read it—I recited the Riot Act to him—but I was sure glad he hadn't fallen into the
stream. But then things went completely south. I started shooting again, and every shot had a deep
green cast. The light was fading and I kept getting green rocks. Then good old Brownie handed me his
camera, (51.) and that was the rescue at Calf Creek.

John Eunig (52.) was a friend I met when Main Street Westminster was part of "my beat"—my per-
sonal beat, but I did pick up some photos for the paper out on the street. For the time, that was the
"Marketplace." Westminster in the 70's and 80's was alive. Not like the Main Street of the 40's and 50's.
But I had friends on the street and friends around the corner at the Rescue Mission.
Friends like John Eunig. John had been a farmer and something happened. I never
asked. But I did ask him to help me with another Thanksgiving illustration. I photo-
graphed John in the basement of Vern Ecker's building where ML and I lived four years.
John was a kind man and a good subject.

Hanging an exhibition always makes new connections as images juxtapose with their
neighbors. This child is half way round the world from John
praying, but her eyes offer prayers. She and her mother (53.) had staked their claim
on an eight foot section of the train station floor in Pondicherry, India. That was
their home. That's difficult to comprehend. But that really was their home. This
image was made in 1985. The child is a mother now. I wonder what these eyes
have seen in the last 25 years? Could her prayers be so different from an old farmer
from Westminster?

Nine months ago I was riding through the ruins of Port-Au-Prince, Haiti. It was a quick in-and-out trip for
SERRV International to document conditions after the earthquake for several craft groups who supply SERRV.
I do not speak French. I do not have a Haitian driver's license. I had little time. These three images are the
result of what I call "drive-by shootings." My host drove—rather quickly—to and from the crafters while I set
my camera to a fast shutter speed and shot from my passenger's seat with rolled up window. I'm not proud of
my appraoch. I had no other choice. I felt rather voyeuristic—the first time I'd had that sensation in 44 years.
But they do provide a glimpse into the unimaginable conditions of part of our family.

Inspite of the horrific destruction in Port-Au-Prince, not one church cross nor crucifixion
(54.) sculpture was destoryed by the quake which took the lives of hundreds of thou-
sands. This sculpture still stands infront of the national cathedral, just around the corner
from an encampment of two elderly women who gather firewood from the church
splinters.

-8-
This line of women (55.) stretches nearly a quarter mile. Some women camp here
to get a better position for the dole of rice awaiting them at the end of the line. A
woman is lucky if she has a partner with her to help carry the 100 pound sack home.

Aesthetically there's something quite pleasing about the line of

men in their crisp white shirts amidst the splash of orange. (56.) But I still wonder
if there might be an orange left tonight for her child instead of a cookie made from
mud—incredible as it may seem.

There are two Amish friends of mine—Daniel and Leon—who could easily pass for 21st
Century versions of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, especially that day several years ago
when they were working on thier grandfather's farm. But these guys weren't trying to
con anybody into white washing their "daughty's" fence. They'd rather do the work
themselves.

And then there's Mahlon and Michael.(58.) The first time I met them they were
running like the wind down a steep hill—running up and down, one run after anoth-
er, never tiring. The last time I saw them they were all grown up, making time in
their pony cart making certain Michael wasn't late for the evening milk at his
nieghbor's place. I think we all could use more than a little Amish
work ethic.

In Hong Kong I ended up in an elderly Chinese gentleman's home sipping tea and sharing
laughs over the Three Stooges we watched on his television in Mandarin. In Westminster
I walked back alleys too and ended up trading laughs with two sisters,(59.) Wanda and
Mary. All three friends have made my life richer.

But out of the thousands of friends I've made around the world, the one who has
made my life the richest is Maria Louisa Ramirez. She gave up her dream of
dancing in New York as a Rockette to marry a photojournalist and have to endure
such ordeals as learning how to row a boat back and forth, again and again,
through a misty morning mountain fog.(60.)

(61.) The job of the artist

is to deepen the mystery
Francis Bacon

When I am old I shall be spun of golden threads and all the sunsets I have seen shall be
etched upon my reflection. In my twilight years the puzzle will be solved and I will
understand how my path was woven into this blanket of many colors. I shall taste the
sweetness of all creation giving thanks that beings and all things are my relatives.
phil grout

-9-


Sixty years ago I thought the nicest thing in the world was my shiny new pair of shoes. Today,
it's this gathering of old and new friends as we all share in our abilities to shrink the world just a
little bit with the celebration of the art that resides in all of us.

I want to thank my "old" friend Sherri Hosfeld Joseph who has graciously invited me to
fill her space with my art. This truly is the exhibition I have dreamed about for many years.
The Carroll County art community is fortunate to have this new showcase.

I would also like to thank Lyndi McNulty and Gizmo's art for pitching in with some much
needed matte cutting at the 11th hour.

Tim Pritchett of Pritchett Controls provided some much appreciated logistical support.

Fred was by my side every print of the way and still can't get over that hot air balloon suspended
over the studio last Sunday.

And thanks to you for your support of the arts (or at least your appreciation for fine coffee).

Phil Grout