The only thing that reappeared time and again in my work were images of soil, not the smooth, tilled land of the farm I was working on, but the rough, unplowed hills that led from the island port to my parents’ house. I was reared in the mud and the dirt, and it showed up repeatedly on my canvases, even when I didn’t want it to. But the earth is a part of me. The feel of it on my skin. The taste of it in my mouth.
