It’s always one of the most important gallery openings of the year — that of the painter who farms, Allen Whiting. And even at an un-Island-like 86° at 5 pm last Sunday, his ardent fans were not to be deterred. While the outside had a blue-color workingman’s farm decor, the inside was decked top to bottom with many of Allen’s finest creations, hung among a dining room and table, a hallway, and a cozy living room. Hardly the look of a state-of-the-art, pristine gallery. But who cared? There were lots of those favorable little red dots to be seen here and there. Allen told me this was his 39th straight year of this splendid occasion, and he favors the idea of calling next year’s his last. “I’m just getting too old now … too much effort is involved. You know, I’m sure.” I nodded, me a modest 71. I know all too well.
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