When I went to real canvas in 1994, for a brief time I was in love with the way color fell down the canvas. I produced a batch of canvases that now look like a tip of the hat to Helen Frankenthaler. Big washy dripping color. I told myself I was onto something, and roared down to show Greg Kucera, curator of a major well respected Art Gallery in Seattle.

Greg looked at my big washy stuff and said flatly "no no.... um, have you tried to write down why you do this archaic kind of painting?" It¹s hilarious now, and he was right. But at the time I was embarrassed and drove home with my tail between my legs. And I said out loud to no one "omg does everything have to be a sellout?" - what my GF used to call "thrashy art with thick paint and dead dogs"

Meanwhile it turned out that Kurt Cobain had killed himself that day. I found out as I got home from this encounter. And, in anger on two fronts, I started this piece. Not only being briefly humiliated, but also I believe that if you have a child, you don't kill yourself. Sorry. That¹s the cheap way out. I collected the newspapers from the day. And it all worked into this painting.

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