Sometime, at least a hundred years ago, Hemingway bet a group of fellow authors that he could write a six-word story. And it would make them all cry. He showed them these words, perhaps taken from a classified ad in a contemporary newspaper. He won the bet. $10. I was discussing literature with Dante when I recalled this anecdote. And for some reason, maybe because I had an unfinished painting on my hands, maybe due to the war in Israel, or images across the globe of hungry, naked children, I completed the piece by fusing several ideas. It stands out from my typical work. Could it lead to other provocative paintings? I don't know. That wasn't the motive. But I have a special feeling for the nightmare that is childhood. You'd think everyone does. It turns out they don't. Too many people in this world have hearts of stone. Hearts of icy mud. Or no heart at all.