36x36 Acrylic/ Mirror/ Glitter/ Epoxy Art Resin. 

If I had to think of you I would imagine your essence like a mischievous gold glimmer off of the roughest sea in the world. Low tide is 200 meters out, to be exact, you recently informed. For someone who has left his passport in a few different airports on a few separate continents, you do have the most wonderful disposition of selective order. You exude the child-like humor and grandeur of a faded amusement park that remains bright in so many memories of the past. You were in a gang but it was innocent, you looked just like Sting then and now, but back then they only thought you were his brother, a milkman. 

Your stories are always on point, worldly, and end with a self-deprecating twist, and I love that about you. 

You gave my husband his first moped in Las Vegas right before you left town. The exchange was in a Whole Foods parking lot where we always went to eat after class. I was still new to British accents, especially northern ones. I couldn’t understand a word you said, but we all laughed a lot about teacher training. We named the scooter Pitah after you. This ended poorly, as my husband got caught on the biggest freeway in town by accident, only able to go 15 mph on the scooter, with a bunch of aggressive Americans in giant trucks swerving to pretend to hit him for fun. But we never forgot that gift you gave us. 

I remember walking you into a Bikram yoga studio last January. You were deathly hungover and carrying a radio, blaring a Newcastle United game as we walked into the silent hotroom. We died in the heat of that class, and I remember sitting in my car with you in the rain afterward saying “This is part of my day where I nearly pass out in my car and contemplate life because I can’t feel anything at all.” You nodded. That trip we took you for fish and chips on the pier. We laughed because “Around the World” by Daft Punk was playing. You were doing a world tour at that time. The UK to France to New Zealand to Kata Beach to a few stops in the USA. We went to a Mexican restaurant for New Year's Eve and you told us so many stories of your life and travels. You marveled about your new granddaughter, so excited to take her on her very first snow holiday. Years into the future and married to a Brit myself, I could understand your accent in the loud restaurant just fine now. Even the tiniest measures of growing are still growing. 

Sometimes you are your very own storm. Drastically cold, with your own version of sideways rain. Maybe sometimes you could be vicious, mostly towards yourself, but you’ve softened over the years after the emotional consequences started to make more sense. There is a depth to the self-realization and understanding this version of pain has gifted you. Just like there is a depth to this art as it reflects the beauty of the adversity that is inside of you, outward. I hope you always celebrate the high tides, and powerful storms in the past and to come. I hope you celebrate the value of everything the highs and lows of a life well lived have given you. I hope when your eye catches this painting - your painting, a portrait of all of the magic you put out into the world - you feel a sense of accomplishment, excitement, grace, and wonder. 

Like the Spanish City when you were a kid.