A while back I was having an exchange with my brother in which we werediscussing how we would like to leave this earth—the trappings, the fripperies,if you will. How we would like to be boxed up and sent away
On this page, I exhibit the fauvist mother gazein thirsty gouache strokes that couldn’t be undone.But my heart hides the aches of a peasant paintbrushwhose meager lines, couldn’t be made visible. On it, my father’s nose and skin
She tugged at her purple bracelet, twisted her hair, and worried of what would happen if the guard saw her walk in. What would he think? What would anyone think?