My father painted small watercolors. Though never formally trained, he was good at it. He used good paper and his paints came in tiny tubes. Payne’s Gray was his favorite, a dark gray that found its way into every watercolor … sky, ocean, the hull of a derelict boat on a deserted beach. I once went with my father to pick up a painting of his that had been in an exhibit but his painting wasn’t there. They told him it had been stolen from the show. I expected my father to be angry or indignant, but he was oddly pleased.