I stopped and looked out across the fjord. The sun was setting, the clouds were turning blood red. I felt a scream passing through nature. It seemed to me that I could hear the scream. I painted this picture; painted the clouds as real blood. The colors screamed" (Preble
52). Some people, when they look at this painting, only see a person screaming.
They see the pretty blend of colors, but don't actually realize what they are looking at. A lone emaciated figure halts on a bridge clutching his ears, his eyes and mouth open wide in a scream of anguish. Behind him a couple (his two "friends") are walking together in the opposite direction. Barely discernible in the swirling motion of a red-blood sunset and deep blue-black fjord, are tiny boats at sea, and the suggestion of town bu