Painted in something of a disassociative fugue, somewhere high above the upper Delaware, in the southern Catskills of New York, in the first weeks of November. The piece began as a frenzied discourse on what had been intended to be a portrayal of the End of Days. But then awareness dawned that the problems in this world are localized, and it isn’t the world that needs to end; it’s patriarchy. Eve was never thrown out of Eden; Adam was. He did it to himself. But, of course he blamed the woman.

He was just mad to discover that he came from Eve, a small part of her, and not the other way around. He was angry that all life comes into the world from Woman, and not from Man. He became especially enraged to learn that the goddess, in the form of a serpent, spoke wisdom to the Woman that he could not understand, or even hear. His Venus envy consumed him until he could no longer see the Garden all around him, and so he was exiled by his own hand. (Of course he blamed “the woman,” and smeared the serpent. That was always Adam’s way.)

Eve merely followed him into his exile, out of compassion and love for this stunted, angry, suffering little man. Adam mistook her devotion to him (which was really the same devotion she felt for all beings) as a sign that he must, somehow, be “superior” to her. Maybe even to all other beings! Maybe he even had dominion over the earth herself! “Yeh,” thought Adam. “That’s right. I didn’t wanna hear that shitty old serpent anyhow. Who needs wisdom, when I can have alternative wisdom!”

That’s what he told himself. And he went off and made up a pretend god, who was a man, like himself. A violent, angry, ragey god… again, like himself. A god who would put him in charge, and tell him secret things. A god who would put the woman “in her place,” which he thought should be beneath himself.

Eventually, Adam came to believe this nonsense. He thought God must have a dick, because he did. He told himself that he and his God were special, because they had this silly little dangle of wrinkled flesh hanging pitifully between their legs, that he didn’t see on Eve anywhere. “So what if she can bring life into the world,” thought Adam. “I’ve got dangly bits!”

Pretending God was, laughably, a dude like himself, gave him an erroneous vision of the world. He started to see himself as the carrier of the seed, which is a hoot, given that a seed is an egg, and all women are born with the seeds they receive from their mother through her mother and through hers, all the way back to the garden. All Adam ever had was just jiz.

Eve felt pity and compassion for this mixed up, bozo of a man. So, for a long time, she humored him in his sad delusion, letting him think he really did run the show, letting him take credit for her work, waiting for him to grow the fuck up. He never did, though, and the delusion went to his head. It gave him a false sense of power, and he has misused the comfort and space that Eve gave him. He has squandered all of his energy in ways that have caused great suffering, to himself, to Eve, to all beings, and to the earth. Thus, it is time for Eve to return to Her Garden.

As this truth began to arise, the painting began to transform every brush stroke, from a fugue of rage and pain, to a gentle recognition of the true meaning of this existential moment in which we have found ourselves. A piece that I had thought might be full of violence and fear became, instead, a beautiful reflection of the piece of Eden that lies along the upper Delaware. The Catskills in autumn. Where Eve lives.

Transformation of suffering is the way of the artist.

Sometimes, you’ve got to do a little weeding, and the garden re- appears before your very eyes.