Oil on canvas, 2017

On August 11th, 2016, my father passed away. It was difficult to believe it was true, for only a few hours earlier I had said goodbye to him. I had spent the entire afternoon by his side — he was so alive. When I arrived at the hospital, I felt an overwhelming fear at the thought of seeing his body, yet I held his hand — the same hand I had grasped the day before when I kissed him farewell.

Today I ask myself what meaning life holds if we are destined to die. I look around and see the child I once was, the person I have become, and my father. In the end, everything ends. All our desires are buried or burned along with our bodies. I don’t believe in reincarnation, nor in lives that precede or follow the one we are given. Perhaps we don’t choose when to die — or perhaps we do. Perhaps we have time to reflect on what it means as the moment approaches, or perhaps not. What I do know is that everything dies all the time.

Death is not an interruption but a consequence of an event that begins at the very moment of our conception. That finitude — the one that defines us, frightens us, and binds us to life — is the debt we must pay for existing.

Fall evokes this loss and arises from an attempt to preserve my last memories of my father, under the belief that by painting this moment, I might celebrate his memory and come to understand his absence.