if you ask me winter is one big work of art. to say this is due to the beauty of new fallen snow would not seperate it from any other season with equally stunning virtues. art is not just beauty; winter is not just snow. it is often gray. a solid, unmotivating palor that lends itself to thought, to introspection, and to ambiguity. under gray skies there are no shadows and no bright patches, no place in the outside world to look for answers. humans are creatures of light and dark sides, each of which is given its solice by certain parts of the day. in gray there is no haven. no clarity or comparison, what is and is not. there is only uncertainty, breeder of anxiety, wonder, and the need to search. somewhere there is meaning, and the gray will help you find it.