Painter's Statement The painter holds a degree from an uncelebrated university in Memphis, Tennessee, located at the corner of Patterson Avenue and a street he has forgotten the name of. He holds it day and night in his right hand, while his left hand continues to write letters home. With his mouth, he paints. This makes kissing somewhat difficult, thrilling, and smarmy. The smarminess he holds like an emerald pinned to his chest, not because it's closer to his heart but because it complements the color of his blood which is not quite red. Not actually red at all like the color of denial: white. White, the painter believes, is the most beautiful color in the world because it reflects every other color, equally. Or at least most of the time, since it's hard to reconcile this with the fact that at funerals God and Lucifer wear opposite colored suits: God in earth-tones, Lucifer in imitation pastels. Similarly, the paragraph here is about love until the painter dies, and then the paragraph will be a run-on sentence about death. For this reason, he watches no movies with actors who have already passed away into euphemism. The painter adores love because it is inscrutable and French. He loves the French but would never marry one. On certain afternoons when the light pretends to be morning, he believes he could marry the world. But this is simply untrue. In his spare time, the painter is an insomniac. The rest of the time he holds his breath because it is a truth he has learned not to question. Although literary critics continue to say that his paintings are portraits, the painter, in numerous personal interviews, continues to claim: "[I] have never painted anything but landscapes."