I am at the center, no doubt, but still a prop, perhaps like everything that he places at the core of his published life - his family, his friends, his career, his public views. Me together with the patriarchal mass of the living space he gave me to keep me in his life: the daddy armchair, the new ashtray shaped like a bimbo, the roses in a stoneware vase that signified his growing guilt.

What makes it more poetic, however, is that i did not sit for it.
So is this how you paint a memory?


-The Diary of R.S.: Musings On Art