While driving, I was thinking of brush strokes. That thought took me to Knox Martin, one of my teachers at the Art Student League in New York. He was one of the most full of life, fun loving people I have ever met. He was not a teacher, but a "maestro." Very frequently, he would walk into class with his cane up into the air swearing very loud about something. It was the Russians, or Tintoretto ( he loved Titian) or something back East somewhere. It always made me smile. This day that came to mind, he was critiquing one of my paintings. He took my hand very gently, opened my palm as it was a canvas, his fingers a brush: One, two , three. Each stroke was gentle but determined. "This is the way you do it," he said. Then he moved on. I would never forget it. When I am 83 like him, I want to have such a thirst for life.