"You've just written a 200 page autobiography. Send us page 165. (Please use your own discretion to choose the timeframe of your autobiography; it can be about your current or future self.)"

When I sit in my studio (as I am now), I like to leave the window open. The screen strains the breeze, and I fancy the air to be more pure, as if the world were left outside. The air is the same, I imagine, as anywhere else I've ever been, in all my years, the same as home. I was never one to be thrilled about travel, but, when I paint landscapes of far away lands and breathe the air we share, I feel as though I could be there. States stain my fingers, countries cling to my palette knife, and continents are splattered across my smock. The emerald forests of Washington reside on my pinky, the French countryside precariously hangs from the tip of my brush, sapphire oceans are smeared on my thigh, and the Amazon finds its way onto my nose. I can package the whole world up in a small scratched wooden box.

The light wind teases the curtains, unfurling into the room, temporarily extinguishing the scattered sunlight. Each tide is infused with the fragrance of the season. Have you ever noticed how different the seasons smell? It's a subtle shift in the air, so small that the scents seamlessly meld together. Like blending paint, the two colors are vibrant and full, dabbed on opposite ends of the bristles, but, when pressed to the canvas...

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