I paint the fantasy of me. This is my story, replete with the screw-ups, the pleasures, and the pleasant fictions. Who am I? I wasn’t born here. I’ve never looked upon the face of someone with the same blood as I have. Never seen my eyes in someone else. I often paint fictional portraits that surface from my yearning imagination. Some are illuminated by the refulgence of past encounters like the glowing filament in a freshly turned-off light bulb. And some come from who knows where. People come and go. My parents died too young. I’m hurtling through this life, and every once in a while a person’s image gets projected somewhere on my consciousness. My art is a tribute to them.