Portrait by Stephen Schwolert

Wow. My portrait is done, and it's a-fucking-mazing.
I can't tell you how weird it is to look at yourself in a portrait, especially one so uncannily dead-on as this one. I feel suddenly inadequate, like maybe I've cheated. What have I done to deserve to be immortalized in oils? When I die, will this portrait go to someone who knew and loved me, or will it hang in some Goodwill store somewhere next to a pair of decrepit macrame owls?

Now that it's done, I wonder, what possessed me to comission a portrait of myself? Have I become narcissistic in my late thirties, having spent so much time thinking of myself as a complete waste of oxygen for so long? Is all that inheritance money burning a hole in my pocket?

No to both. But I think spending a chunk of my inheritance on this indulgence is a way to communicate with my mothers.

Mothers. I typed that by accident, but I realized I should leave it. I had two mothers before I had none; one gave me up for adoption and the other adopted me to help her bear the burden of her own mother. There's something about having this portrait done that feels like giving the fucking bird to both of them.

This gorgeous canvas was done by the incomparable Stephen Schwolert, who I hope now knows how good he is. Steve shouldn't have do anything but this for a living. Thank you so much, Steve. You're a great friend and a tremendous painter.