
Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.

The lake and the mountains have become my landscape, my real world.

The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy.
Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.
The lake and the mountains have become my landscape, my real world.
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy.