I visited my parents over the holidays and when I was there I saw a lot of my early student work since that is mostly what they have on the walls. It is interesting to see my old stuff. Some of it (not much) amazes me with its vigor and poetry, but mostly I wince at the poor drawing and weak paint quality. This little painting of rocks and a stream was propped up on the kitchen counter where I couldn't avoid seeing it and slowly it began to drive me nuts. I don't remember painting it but, judging by the signature and subject matter, I must have done it about twenty-five years ago. The water isn't bad, but the rocks just look like pink potatoes to me and the lack of depth makes me crazy. I longed to take a brush to it: open up the space, make the rocks hard and bring the sunlight dazzling in. I told my mother I'd take it home and fix it up for her (she gave me a fishy look and muttered something about not letting me in the house anymore) When I got it in my studio I decided to make a copy for myself.