Overcast, even, dispersed gray light. Some feeling like being somewhere else completely. I don’t know where though. A group of people walk by with clear plastic ponchos over their clothes. They look like a demented expedition of mechanical gnomes. A hired storage container sits on the horse path across from the studio on the other side of the iron fence. It starts to drizzle. I clamp the beach umbrella to the milk crate and open it up. Shelter. I’m dressed in layers. I imagine what is inside the storage container. What is somebody storing here? I don’t care. I think about how to paint it and the idea of storing information, the impossible task that I want a painting to do, to catch and to store everything. Yes I am expecting everything. Can it serve? Can it be in service of an idea and nothing else? Can it hold both relationship and correspondence? Keep a place between body and language? Become a social surface? This is the tension. This is the model.