Memories of loved people, and loved places, come to me like quiet music. Some are like overtones ringing above the readily discernible harmonies and dissonances of life. If I listen closely, even the most ephemeral are distilled. Once thought to be forgotten, they are revealed to be sustained into the present. The permeation of the past into the observable world is made evident, and the observable world is enriched beyond its superficial appearances. This does not happen all at once, but unravels in the evolution of a painting like a mystery. When the faint chiming of my inner life, whether it be blissful or tragic, rings in unison with the painting, I will know that some truth has been accomplished. It is this truth I hold myself accountable to, in the hopes that in investigating myself, I am investigating the common self, and reaching the viewer in a place of deep compassion.