I finger through all the work I've done over the past few years, pulled from my bulging and radiantly full white washed flat file. I'm asked to prepare an inventory list for all of my generous collectors. Those eager to get their taste of Penelope in the flesh, in the paint, in the canvas, on the paper. I'm reminded of what a sensational thing it is to live with one of a kind objects, made with passion and care. Sometimes, with the frequency of which I work, my own work in my home is just another day at the ball park; desensitized to the magic. No, I don't think I'll ever be desensitized to the magic, even if it's my own. As my winter skin begins to dew under the inevitable weight of the impending spring, the flipping between the pages becomes like a heartbeat. Strong and True.
I stumble upon a haphazardly folded image of Marilyn in the piles of my drawings. How could I claim to be a painter of figures and not  have a reference for the most iconic of them all. It's remarkable how quickly my brain can remember when and in what studio I was looking at each thing in these piles. These images are like smells, powerful and immediate nostalgic triggers. I can only yearn for this to transmit through the page.