As with nearly every other form of human expression, the work in What I Did Last Summer functions on several levels. For me, in art/painting parlance, the least of these is the conceptual. The obvious, and often asked, question is some version of “Why the single breast?” As a writer and a visual artist, I figured out a long time ago that exploring the why of an idea was counterproductive as a first (or next, or eventual?) step. I make much more work when, instead of why I ask myself what next. As a painter, I’d rather spend my energy painting and occasionally looking back at the continuum of work in a pseudo-anthropological light. For me, giggling all the way, it’s sufficient to chase the imagery (and my own personal demons and angels) as it careens through (sometimes blatant) psycho-socio-sexual realms. That said, as a fiction writer, keenly interested in all the ways humans/characters profess and confess, I’m always intrigued by a viewer’s notions of why I did what I did.