This painting is special to me for a number of reasons. She painted herself, more than actually me having the 'intention' of painting her. When i was done with her image, i hated her. Maybe because i stared at her too long. Having kept her face in the wall for many days, i returned to her, took a photo, and sent it to a dear person who in turn called me, and told me that he wrote a poem about her. He found in her something that I couldnt see.... or didnt realize perhaps. In some ways, i feel that she was painted for him - that she came to life on the canvas especially for his eyes.. so he could write his poem... and so that I could understand her importance. // The Violinist Awakened by the sound of vibrating strings Enchanted by images of trying links Freeing echoes of structured swings Spreading in space with flying wings A creature with hair strains forking as tree branches Roaming the house in her satin blanches Intoxicating the air with smells reaching the deepest trenches On the hill overlooking beautiful ranches In the light she stood fiddling her bow with amazing grace Her eyes closed, her fingers wrapping the chords as silken lace Pouring her emotions, spreading her art to the entire race Reaching and arching, gliding while leaving no trace With the music fading, I open my eyes, I search for her light Leaping and crouching before the descending night Seeing her marching, fiddling and fiddling with all her might Leaving me behind in a resonating musical plight. // Nando... thank you...