"Let's put it next to the Stella"

One reflects on one's life in increments: A little achievement here ... a bit of success there ... you pick up a pretty girl on the L train, take her to Fatty 'Que and order the smoked-crab laksa and a can of Pabst, then get lucky later ... the odd setback every once in a while to add a bit of depth. Hey, before you know it, you're getting someplace.

Change of topic: One sometimes thinks of one's paintings the way one thinks of one's children. The metaphor doesn't hold completely--that is to say, your paintings never ask you for money. To put it another way, if your house is burning down and you have a choice of saving your favorite painting or your kid, 95% of the time you grab the kid. But it holds to a degree. I care deeply about each and every one and never fail, when delivering a painting or shoving it in a tube to be sent someplace, to whisper "Never let anybody tell you you aren't a great painting."

Then I send them off, sometimes with a tear. I'm always happiest if I think they're going to a good home.

Fastforward, or rewind, to the week before Christmas and my delivery of Corzine Agonistes to what seems like a very nice home. The buyer and I are wrestling with where to hang the thing and he says "Let's put it next to the Stella."

Which are words you don't hear everyday. At least not in my line of work. One reflects on one's life in increments and this, I remember reflecting that day, is one of those increments upon which one reflects.

When you say "in increments," is it the reflecting that is done in increments? Or are the increments of life the things being discretely reflected upon?
Excellent question. The latter, I think.
And when did you ever pick up a girl on the L train?
A man can dream, can't he?

Here is a photo of Big Bad Jon in place, next to the Stella. It may be a bit difficult on the eyes, but in respect for the buyer's privacy, I've cropped it a bit.