I spent two years with this piece, and I still remember in detail the day that it began. It was (and is) my favorite day of painting. This work was (and is) massive. Exceeding me and my space, I stepped out of my white-walled, cream-carpeted apartment and into the woods. Literally. Nailed, hammered, raw cotton canvas I wore like a cape now stretched itself wide between two trees. I approached, I dipped my brush, I reached to make marks on the highest inch, I dug my heels, I poured greys from their cans and I wrote yellow fears and I flung with my hands and the cleanest surface became an image of me, my most heavily-saturated self. I painted on my canvas in my woods for a good fourteen minutes. And then, the sky rained. It seemed to freeze me, careless and relieved. We both became less- tight and less-saturated; the laden-cloth sagged, and my colors wrung out. But I carried my cape and loved every ounce It made me feel, like a masterpiece.