"October always brings with it, for me, a very characteristic pang of nostalgia. Denied to the other eleven months of my calendar year, those bittersweet thirty-one days, increasingly colder and waning with light, never cease to put me away for the whole of their fleeting lifespan. I can’t explain it, really. But there is something about the sublime promise of winter in its absolute, beautiful, frost bitten glory that lures me in. And then too is the sense of parting ways, of moving on, of really leaving behind the vibrant fertility of summer for another 6 months.
I suppose in all honesty it’s not summer as a whole that’s hard to farewell, but what it delivers. And I don’t mean the thick, salty, beach air, or the threadbare jersey dresses, or the brown skin or the tinny crickets at nighttime, but the tomatoes. Those plush, scarlet orbs; those sweet fleshy red handfuls of the sunny season, embodied. As many ways as I paint it, there is no denying the sadness I feel when I get a whiff of a tomato on the brink of overripeness and just brimming with pure, potent, delectable tomato-ness. It’s the scent of my childhood; of waking up early and climbing the asymmetric driveway together with my Grandfather to the plot where his market garden had been laid to rest, but where a few rows of tomato trusses proudly remained.” -Belle Langford