I watched a bowl of fruit on the table remain motionless. Just another example of life imitating art.

I am the Fruit Basket of Love. You should do a painting of how I feel.

I had a dream about you. I was a painter, and you were a nude banana. You wanted me to paint you in a still life, and I asked you to put some peels on....

I have you with me, and I’m terrified you’ll disappear.

I’m not the same person I was before, and I am deathly afraid I will never be her again…

He pulled me toward him, and all I could do was stand there with arms at my sides and head against his chest. Broken, I feared even the slightest movement would cause pieces of me...

But in a still life, there is no end to our looking, which has become allied with the gaze of the painter; we look in and in, to the world of things, in their ambiance...

Because this painting has never been restored there is a heightened poignance to it somehow; it doesn’t have the feeling of unassailable permanence that paintings in museums do.There is a small crack in the lower...