I paint a body, Impressionist, in front of a cute face, also Impressionist. No stylistic or technical mashing together—this is all brushwork.
There is a lot of “air” in it at first; I squeeze the air out, but not all; I retain some. In effect, I retain some of myself, some of my life and fear.
I can crawl and reminisce about mundane things, but I’d rather not. After all, it’s all mundane, including myself.
We’re typically the most sad regarding the deaths of people we know about; “We know about”—that is, even acquaintances or complete strangers, as long as we’re cognizant of them.