I've got a few paintings at home that have been on the wall for years. Moved houses, redecorated, but those never came down. They've grown into the wall by now. Nothing else fits. inkField came out of afternoons like this. Coffee shops, my desk at home, hotel rooms. Some of those afternoons I still remember. Most I've forgotten. But the paintings remember. Maybe one of them becomes a new memory, replaying somewhere, over and over.