PoH is a determined man. Unlike Henry Miller who arrived in Paris at the age of forty suspecting that he was an artist but needing six months of stimulation-by-poverty to prove it, PoH has known all his life that he is another one in a long line, both ignored and distinguished, to have the (mis)fortune of that mysterious element “X” inside him. PoH is fifty years old, a dutiful husband and father, and dedicated practitioner of  painting and self-liberation writing.
He lives in a cedar shake cottage along the shore of a Great Lake.
All days he wakes up with a charged exuberance and hope that begins to wane with the rising sun. By mid-afternoon he accepts failure as a routine chore of this modern day art business. This is good. It keeps him upright through supper and doing the dishes. At dusk, after a long day of wonder and work in the studio, he takes dreamy walks with his wife down to the lake. He feels so lucky to have life and love even if career success is a crap shoot each year he comes closer to the big sleep. Oh well. He paints. He writes. There is always posterity to think about. Then night and gentle sleep and another day of sublime torture.

PoH has hundreds of paintings and several books for sale. He is a practitioner of the modern movement called Stuckism (look it up please).
He cannot get enough of paint. He is the art crazy old man at late mid-life.