For most of his nearly one hundred-and-one years, my Uncle Roscoe showed little interest in anything artistic. That changed in his ninety-third year. It was then that he took up painting. We don’t know how many birds he painted. He often gave them away to anyone standing nearby who wanted one. Some have said they’re primitive. I say they’re delightful.
I place Uncle Roscoe’s style as somewhere between
Grandma Moses and Henri Matisse.