My mother never told me about periods and sex. It was as if the knowledge was instinct, which I suppose she's right, it was. Maybe she knew what went on those summers at my grandfather's house. Maybe she blamed me for more than my father's death, and more for his life and the stories he told me about an adventurous boy named Jake that I'd dream about.

Instinct is what makes my paintings what they are. Streaks are flight. Blood red is survival. Blood red is also sex.

The two, I've always felt, are really one and the same.