Imagine that little girl, hardly more than a baby. She fell from a carriage almost ninety years ago, struck her head on a stone, and forgot everything. Nor just her name; everything! And then one day she recalled just enough to pick up a pencil and make that first hesitant mark across the white. A horizon-line, sure. But also a slot for blackness to pour through.

Still, imagine that small hand lifting the pencil . . . hesitaring  . . . and  then marking the white. Imagine the courage of that first effort to re-establish the world by picturing it. It will aways love that little girl, in spite of all she has cost me. I must. I have no choice. 
Pictures are magic, as you know.    

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Start with a blank surface. It doens´t have to be paper or canvas, but I feel it should be white. We call it white because we need a word, but its true name is nothing. Black is the absence of light but white is the absence of memory, the color of can´t remember.

How to we remember to remember? That´s a question I´ve asked myself since my time on Duma Key, often in the small hours of the morning, looking up into the absence of light, remembering absent friends. Sometimes in those little hours I think about the horizon. You have to establish the horizon. You have to mark the white. A simple enough act, you might say, but any act that re-makes the world is heroic. 
Or  so I´ve  come to believe.