No. 210. Storm and Meadow It seemed to him that lately he spent almost as much time re-exploring his earlier work as he did making new stuff. Was this a part of aging, he wondered? The fact is he poured over early works with such rapt attention--and often with immoderate enjoyment--that he felt it might seem merely narcissistic, until it came to him that his interest in these de-archived works was now altogether new, primary, and even urgent. It was as if they weren't even his! The piece he was examining today had been made--according to the scrawl across the bottom--on January 28, 2013. It was titled "Storm and Meadow in Contention," He loved this idea.

No, 209. Easter Bunny "What on earth....?" exclaimed Abigail upon entering his studio. He made no reply. "Most people just buy chocolate rabbits," she giggled. But he just kept on working. "Why so big?" "I like rabbits," he said. "And not just at Easter." "What do you like best about them?" "They're continually wary, " he told her. "And vulnerable." "This one doesn't seem too vulnerable," said Abigail, staring hard at his twelve-foot plaster mega-bunny. "Why does it have to be so gigantic?" "It enlarges me," he explained, "as I enlarge it," .

No. 208: The Red Buddha "What's this then?" asked his next-door neighbour, Abigail, during one of her brief and always undesired visits to his studio. "It's called 'The Red Buddha', he told her "I like the other colours better than the Buddha's red," Abigail ventured. "I really like all that gold, and that vertical streak of orange." "What's wrong with the red?" It's sullen," said Abigail. "It's the colour of hot brick." "That's okay," he said. "And why is the Buddha figure up so high in the painting?" "Transcendence," "Oh, said Abigail brightly, you mean like updraft?" "Uplift," he told her quietly.

No. 207. Big Bird. There were birds again. He could hear them twittering and chirring outside his studio window. Painting one was to be part of his Spring Fever. He was petty far along with the task when McDowell trudged into the studio and stood behind him, watching. "It's a bird," he said, answering the mannequin's unspoken question. "What's that?" McDowell asked him.

No.206. Independence Day. "What's this then?" asked next-door Abigail, more to herself than to her friend's mannequin, McDowell--who was busy--strangely enough--adjusting the details of a big dot painting he was just finishing up. The mannequin said nothing. "Does he know you've started to paint on your own?" More silence. She could hear the rasp of McDowell's brush on the canvas. "I suppose you pick things up, being in the studio all the time." McDowell went on painting. "I'm going to find out what he thinks of his mannequin turning artist," she told him, in a tone that lay somewhere between information and challenge. McDowell put down his brush and walked stiffly out of the studio.