Through the narrow slit of a window that looked out on the grassy yard, I saw a rabbit hop through the morning dew, and I thought to myself that I could not leave a world where rabbits exist. There is death and there is life. There are dead rabbits and there are live rabbits. Rabbits are consumed, subsumed, worshiped and wasted. The same could be said of human life, and so rabbits and ourselves might be interchanged. Throughout art and literature, the rabbit is ubiquitous, forced into so many anthropomorphic roles, taking on human qualities—good, evil, mischievous, devious, naive, or egotistical. Why should I paint rabbits when the rabbit has been borrowed, stolen, and teased to infinity? Why paint at all? I do not know. All I know is that I paint rabbits.