I completed this piece after a friend of mine died. He was a funny, flawed, spunky, and ordinary kid. He had a simple and beautiful life, as many of us do. Tragically, he left this world without even turning 18. He was a good kid; simple and didn't stand out much. We loved him for who he was. However, when we all gathered in the chapel in his fantastic memory, he went from being a good wrestler to the best wrestler; from an alright friend to the best friend a human being could ask for; from a little silly to Steve Carell-status. This didn't seem right. Why do we remember people not for who they were but for who we'd rather remember them to be? Why does immortality after death lie in perfection when the beauty of human life is in the imperfections? Why are we not remembering the Sam we once loved but a fabricated and sugarcoated version of him? Because it makes death more digestible.
Just like a spoonful of sugar does to get a cup of bitter tea down.
48 x 30"
Oil on canvas