Life is less meaningful when I don’t write—not to you, of course, but to me. You are as unchanged by my not writing as you are by my writing. There are three questions that plague me as an artist, they are 1. What to paint; 2. How to paint; and 3. Why to paint. The what-to-paint is an unceasing repetitive task. The how-to-paint is a thesis. The why-to-paint is an existential crisis. Sometimes I am lucky, and none of these questions confronts me in the studio. Most times I am met with at least one of them. When I am very unlucky, I am beset by all three at the same time. That is where I am now. I am in the snake pit with the what and the how and the why. The what is a clutch of green garden snakes. The how is a python stronger than my arm. The why is a quarreling knot of vipers in my heart.