...onions, I must say.

 Sometime during my fifth year at university I painted this oil of an onion.  I had been reading a Gunter Grass novel, possibly Dog Years or The Flounder, in which he described a postwar underground nightclub in Berlin where were patrons were brought a single onion by the maitre d', who sliced it in front of them at their tables so that they could cry.  That had sort of resonated with me.

Just recently I realised what this Spanish onion that had been sitting on my kitchen counter for about a month was reminding me of.

And now some photos from my walk to the lake (and back) on Tuesday, July 27th 2021.