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I drew a lot of these portraits at a round table, by a rectangular window. Across the street, you could see the motel in which Brett Whiteley took his last breath. One night, Dan and I were tripping at that table, listening to Kraftwerk. I order mentioned Whiteley. We touched upon the realm of spirits. With a multitude of luminous emeralds and lilacs, these portraits were swirling as we glanced through the notebooks.

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