Dear Doctor,
I wish I had some wisdom to report, since I had seen you last. I wish I had some maturity to show you evidence of, but the truth is, I am exactly the same. I have been eating candy when I am not hungry, and drawing in the mud, hoping that the face of Rembrandt, the portrait he did of himself when he was older, would ooze out of it, and rise, like a serpent out of the deep. Not the serpent of Eve, but the inevitable serpent of Darwin, the one with feet, not quite the Lochness monster but still in that vein of mystery and worry we have when we realize there is so much we do not know. Supernatural, it is called.
That portrait, it has nothing to do with style. His face, his age, his countenance, is rising up out of the raw umber and burnt Sienna not like a God, but a man, a humble man, made in his own image.
Until next time,
Desdemona
Havanna, Cuba 1906