My grandfather was a novelist.

He spent his life writing, but he was never widely known.

Not every artist is remembered.

Some spend their entire lives making work that quietly disappears.

A painting of this scale takes me about a month to complete, even when I work every day.

At best, I can make twelve paintings a year.

And even those twelve paintings can be forgotten.

I don't believe that finishing this painting will change my life.

Lately, I find myself returning to a much simpler question.

Why do I paint?

I still don't have a satisfying answer.

Perhaps painting has less to do with believing that a work will survive than with accepting that it may not—and continuing anyway.