I was asked recently why I don’t do more autobiographical art, as if that’s something an artist is required to do. I found this sketch unfinished and since it was pretty close to something that actually happened I decided to complete it. I told my friend this was from the time I, with full intent and malice, burnt down the just finished neighborhood treehouse because the older kids (whose property it was on) wouldn't let the younger kids (who helped build it) play in it. I watched it burn to the ground, then volunteered to help the firefighters put the last embers out with their water cans, to deflect suspicion. I was seven.
My friend now understands why I don’t do more autobiographical art.