My most vivid memories of childhood are full of frustration and angst while I struggled unrelentingly to successfully draw a self-portrait. For several of my formative years, I spent night after night, prostrate upon my living room floor, staring into a small mirror I snatched from the nearby bathroom. My stomach remained tense and my breathing sharp in my singular focus, while page after page of my sketchbook slowly revealed the evolution of skill in progress. The same obsessive determination endures as I enter mid-life. I still draw, yet now simply for the pleasure of it. I need it. Nothing satisfies like a finished work on paper.