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Donald Hazen Brown Archive By Don Brown


1995 EASTON, CT. It was a beautiful summer morning in Connecticut. The deep blue sky, the brilliant green of the foliage, and the warm breeze on my face, all seemed to celebrate the joy of summer. Seated on my collapsible stool in a clump of poison oak, the dilapidated barn I was sketching across the road contrasted sharply with the beauty of this July summer day. One could only imagine that at one time, in the not too distant past, the barn and its sheds were noble, stately structures-beautiful in their own utilitarian way. But no longer, They had passed into a state of obvious neglect. Even the silo that once graced the front of the barn was gone-­ leaving an empty hole for the roof to embrace. I felt an inescapable sense of melancholy as I studied the scene before me. The deterioration of the barn evoked sadness within me. Aging, it was collapsing and dying almost board-by-board, while yet, paradoxically surrounded by the beauty of a summer sky, breeze and foliage. No matter how we die, or when, beauty it seems surrounds us. And death is embraced in the arms of beauty.

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